


Skinhunger

by cloverfield



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: 2nd person POV, Angst, CLAMPkink, Consensual Blood Drinking, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Loss of Established Relationship, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Series, UST, alternating pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2632058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverfield/pseuds/cloverfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>De-anon from CLAMPkink; in which Kurogane is mortally wounded, Fai pays the price -the only price he could- to save him, and Syaoran can do nothing but stand by and watch as things get painful for the both of them. NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written for the following prompt:
> 
> _Kurogane/Fai post series - Kurogane and Fai were already in an established relationship, but one day in order to save Kurogane, who is mortally wounded, Fai pays the price by having his memory since meeting Kurogane for the first time erased. Kurogane recovers and has to pretty much starts over with Fai but he's up to the task._
> 
> _Bonus if Fai always address Kurogane politely by his correct name this time around and Kurogane is both sad and annoyed for this turn of event._
> 
> This is complete, seeing as it is a finished fic I am reposting; I'll be updating it on a semi-regular basis until I am finished. I have also combined the first three parts into one, seeing as they were quite short and seem to work best when read together.

 

“He’ll hate you,” says ( _pleads, warns, begs_ ) Syaoran, and you know it’s true. Blood sticks his hair to his face and crusts one brown eye shut- Kurogane was not the only one to be injured the battle just gone.

You speak, because it would be rude not to, but the words that slip from your mouth are clumsy, broken things and for the life of you you can’t even remember what you just said. The dark-haired man who lies before you ( _hero, saviour, lover_ ) is broken too, skin split, metal cracked like bones and breath wheezing in his lungs. He coughs, blood spatters his lips and chin in thick, dark strings and Ginryuu lies unsheathed by one twitching hand whose fingers curl in on themselves like the claws of some great bird.

You don’t want to remember him like this.

Depending on what you say next, you might not have to.

Mokona is crying and Watanuki watches you with eyes too old ( _like the ones you see in the mirror every morning, like the ones that shadow your face and fill with tears in the space between one choking sob and the next_ ) to see what you will choose. You wonder if he already knows.

“There has to be… there has to be some other way!” Syaoran’s shout echoes in the close air of the shop’s yard, so sunny this time; the air thick and reeking with humid heat. But his voice is still that of a boy, and the roar of your heartbeat drowns out anything but your answer. Watanuki closes his eyes and the last thing you see ( _blurred and warped as salt stains your cheeks and steals your pride and you don't care, you don't care at all and in a moment you won't even remember the pain that twists in your chest)_  is red, and you pray it was just blood-

* * *

 

Kurogane is surprisingly calm when Syaoran tells him what happened. He expected violence, but the older man sits still and quiet and merely watches Fai through the frosted windows as he stomps about in the snow that hugs their tiny cottage in heavy drifts. This world is ice-locked, and in the week they’ve spent here he’s not once seen the white heaped across the yard melt even a little. Mokona’s ears droop and the small creature climbs onto Kurogane’s lap, looking lost in the folds of blankets that wrap his tall frame, barely hiding the swathes of bandages that criss-cross tanned skin.

His metal arm gleams, bright and shiny and new, in the glare from the snow outside as it spills in through the blinds. There was no chance to cover it with skin this time, and thick cords and cables shift as he tugs the blanket up and over his bare shoulder, eyes still fixed on the window-

-on the man with golden hair that floats in gossamer wisps about his face, cheeks flushed and pink from the chill, eyes as blue as the frozen sky-

-and he doesn’t even turn his head as Fai disappears from sight under the eaves of the house, and the sound of footsteps rings up the stairs, and he is still looking through the glass when the mage opens the door to this bedroom.

“Syaoran-kun, this has got to be the coldest world I’ve ever been to! I’ve never seen so much snow, not since Ceres- oh. I’m so sorry, you must be the owner of this lovely cottage.”

Kurogane turns, slowly, and if the bright smile ( _honest and brilliant, gleaming like a mirror and Syaoran wonders what the warrior sees in that curve of pink lips and white teeth_ ) Fai gives him cuts him to the quick he gives no sign.

“My name is Fai, Fai D. Fluorite, and I must say I’m terribly grateful you’ve leant us your home. It’s not often I get to stay somewhere so welcoming, mister landlord.” The bow he drops into is low and graceful, his woolen coat flaring about his slender body, blue eyes glowing with happiness and nothing like recognition.

“It’s Kurogane. And I’m thinking of selling it. Too many memories.”

“Ku- _ro_ -ga- _ne_ ,” says Fai carefully, sounding out the syllables, and his soft voice curls about the sounds like a cat, sleek and purring in the heat before a fire. “Good to know you, Kurogane-san. Good to know you.” The blonde shakes the metal hand proffered, and does not flinch at the chill.

Only Syaoran sees the despair that flickers in red, and only quickly- shutters fall down over eyes like rubies, and Kurogane nods briskly back, the mage’s hand strong in his grip. “Same to you.”

* * *

 

The next world you find is not nearly so calm and cold; the sky is scorched white with firestorms and the forests are choked with ash. You aren’t there very long, but long enough to see that the dark-haired man who has joined your small group is a skilled warrior- more than skilled, more than merely  _skilled_. His blade finds its home in foes unnumbered, and you feel something like fear as red eyes flicker with the light that glows from the burning trees that bracket your small group, and you can’t say which flames burn hotter.

But Syaoran trusts him. The boy leaves himself unguarded, in spite of the obvious ease in which Kurogane has dispatched the men that chased you to the riverbank, perhaps because of it; he flicks the blood from his blade ( _Ginryuu, he told you, the name means silver dragon and in that flash of steel it’s easy for you to see the fangs of the beast)_  with a practiced snap of his wrist and sheathes the sword in one, smoothly-practiced movement. You wonder how many men he has killed, and how many of those lives taken he regrets, but you daren’t ask. You don’t know him well enough for that.

You  _want_  to know, and that scares you a little, scares you a  _lot_ , because this man ( _with hellish eyes and a voice that rumbles low and deep and shakes you to your bones and a body carved with the price paid to violence to earn such terrible, beautiful swordplay_ ) is more fascinating than any stranger has a right to be. Yours is a tight-knit group, even tighter now with your princess gone and waiting in Clow, and the thought that this man might so very easily weave himself into that fabric bothers you even more. You don’t want this curiosity, pricking at your thoughts with kitten-claws and leaving you light-headed and distracted; you don’t need the urge to tease that oh-so-serious face which flickers on your silvered tongue and threatens to turn your oh-so-polite speech into the playful banter you never truly owned as a child…

But  _want_  and  _need_  have always worn you cruelly, and you have no expectation that your wish to hold yourself aloof will be granted. In your long and sometimes terrible life, you cannot recall a single occasion when any wish of yours ever was.

“Fai-Fai is thoughtful. Mokona wonders whether Fai even knows he’s stopped smiling.”

The small, sweet voice jerks you out of your thoughts; you have been staring at the campfire ( _and not at the man who sits in the play of shadows just beyond, dozing against a tree as firelight ripples over him like the glare cast from water_ ) for an hour or so- insomuch as you can tell the passage of time in this world. Syaoran looks up, and there is something like sorrow in his eyes, and you are grateful they are his own. You don’t know how you could ever hide anything from your own gaze.

Mokona touches your knee, softly, softly, as though you were some animal it dares not startle. You make a soft noise in return, and then it is all too easy to smile and whisper comforting words that your thoughts merely wandered, that you are merely tired, and your hand curls gently in sleek white fur. You cast your gaze down, along with your thoughts, and red eyes half-slitted burn your skin even as you turn your face away.

Sleep finds you not much later, and your dreams ( _red, red, drowning in red, on your lips, on your tongue, painting your breath with the gasp and groan of blood and sex_ ) are nothing you remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an older CLAMPkink fic of mine, from 2011; as part of my on-going process of archiving my fic here, it's being reposted. This is my first "long" fic for this fandom and this pairing, as well as my first experiment with 2nd Person POV; I am proud of this fic, and so happy I wrote it for the prompt. I think, no matter what I write for this pairing, this fic will always have a special place in my heart.


	2. Chapter 2

The sunlight here is a lot softer, and melts easily along the coastline, buttery and yellow and turning the sand to flecks of gold in the dusky glow. Kurogane supposes there is kind of peace on this small island ( _and it is an island, barely large enough to hold the three of them, the pork bun, a small pond of freshwater, a collection of trees and an old shipwreck on the far side_ ) even if it’s far too easy to walk from one end to the other in a single day. Which he has done. More than once. There’s only so many ways a man can kill time fishing after all.

The pork bun has declared this place important; that there is something that must happen before they can leave… but between the three of them they have no idea what it is and so time runs by, forgotten, and day blurs into day after as they wait.

Syaoran has taken to carving the days into a palm tree close to their small camp and then wandering off, Mokona in tow, to try and decipher whatever mystery he sees in the salt-bleached ruins of the ship; Fai spends his mornings alone doing gods-alone know what- it’s not like the two of them are joined at the hip, he doesn’t have to know where the blonde is all the damn time ( _not like before, not like before, where his presence was a pain, an ache, a need and the first and last thing he saw everyday were blue eyes that laughed and laughed_)- but he’s always back again in the afternoons to help cook dinner.

Which seems to be mostly fish. Much to the mage’s disgust.

It is a small relief that not everything is different, and though he finds himself wondering how much, exactly, Fai remembers of the last few years of their shared lives ( _if he can call a life in which the memory of his own existence has been snipped from as neatly as stitches from a wound_   _shared_ ) Kurogane will not ( _cannot_ ) ask; the look on Syaoran’s face when Sakura sweetly asked his name was engraved on his memory a long time ago, and he has no wish to spend his evenings crying in the rain.

Not that he would. Strength enough to cry or not, it has been a long time since he last shed tears, and he won’t do so over something he can’t change, and the things he can change are not worth crying over.

But he is tired of Syaoran watching him like he is already broken, like the boy expects him to buckle under the burden of this new hardship. Because he won’t. Heavy as this is ( _and it is heavy, a leaden weight that sinks deep in his chest, turning his bones to iron, making it hard to stand in the face of impassive, ignorant blue; he can only strengthen his stance, straighten his shoulders and bear up underneath it_) it is not something he would wish anyone else to carry for him, sure as hell not some half-pint brat who can barely swing a sword and has his own damn problems to think about first.

Though that’s being a little unfair to the kid. He tries hard, and his swordsmanship  _has_  gotten better. It’s not his fault he’s so damn skinny.

So when Syaoran enters the sun-dappled clearing they have designated as their kitchen in the early afternoon, crusted with sand and dragging a trunk of debris he has scrounged from the shipwreck, brown eyes terribly serious as they flick between Kurogane scaling fish and Fai dozing lazily on a large, sun-drenched rock behind him, it only takes the dark-haired man a minute to put down his dagger, wipe his bloody hands on the ragged remnants of his trousers, grab the kid, swing him up and over his shoulder in one easy movement and after a short dash to the shore-

-Fai’s laughter ringing out behind him like a song, Mokona bouncing along through the underbrush with gleeful giggles, Syaoran pleading for mercy in a startled, breathless shout-

-dump his scrawny frame in the blue-green shallows with a loud and frothy  _sploosh!_

The startled, salty splutter the boy gives him is very satisfying, and the white thing joins him in the surf not to long after attempting to bounce off Kurogane himself; an easy, overhand throw sends Mokona careening into the water with a cheerful “Wheee~!”

“Wh- wh- wh- wh-?” says Syaoran, seawater dripping from his chin, sand in his hair, coughing up grit even as Kurogane wades into the water -knee-deep, cold, sloshing over the torn legs of his trousers- and yanks him up by the collar. Brown eyes flicker between shock, uncertainty and surprise; in spite of himself, Syaoran smiles a little as Kurogane’s metal hand, heavy, sun-warmed, flecked with salt and fishscales, comes to rest on his head. The boy barely has a moment to suck in a breath before he is dunked again, and the ninja does not stop the grin that breaks out over his face as he lets go, Syaoran popping up like a cork, laughing and spluttering, Mokona paddling in the gentle tide that sloshes about his knees and sends the sand swirling about his feet in drifting eddies.

The mage is watching. He knows it, feels it, would feel it through wood or stone or steel or any other thing that would try to separate them. But memories are not so tangible, and the loss of them is not something he can break through with force or a blade or sheer will. Just time, patience and the belief that if this is what the witch said it was ( _hitsuzen, like all things, always and only hitsuzen_ ) all he has to do is wait.

Kurogane is not patient by nature, but has learned the skill through years of serving Tomoyo, and it is one of the many, many things he is grateful she has changed in him.

( _The mage has changed more, and even if she said nothing about it, Tomoyo certainly knew._ )

Mokona tries to splash him, but stubby arms ( _paws?_ ) are too short and he nudges the tiny thing with his foot, sending it spinning into the surf with yet more giggles. Blue eyes burn holes in his back.

“Kurogane-san?”

He bops the boy on the head ( _gently, metal hand is heavier than flesh and the kid’s neck is still thin and just a little weedy, the mark of a teenage boy not yet grown into himself_ ) and forces that questioning gaze to meet his own.

If Fai is listening, Kurogane does not care and will not stop himself. “Don’t pity me.” Brown eyes immediately widen ( _guilt? Fear? Remembered, residual sorrow?_ ) and Syaoran flusters, but Kurogane continues on regardless. “I said it to the other one, but even if you heard it, maybe I need to say it to you too. My wounds are no weight for you to carry, no matter how heavy you think them. My pain is my own. What kind of man would I be if I couldn’t carry it?”

The words are not unkind, not angry. Just words. He ruffles damp hair, feels a few strands catch in the metal webbing that makes his fingers, and the boy looks up at him in a way that makes him feel a little raw, so Kurogane drops his hand, nudges a floating pork bun with his knee -briefly dunking it in the foam, long ears floating out behind the round body like leaves in the water- and wades back to shore, leaving Syaoran to sit, stunned, in the shallows.

Fai is watching, arms crossed, leaning against a palm whose crown droops with long, heavy fronds. ( _The sky, the sea- they are nowhere as blue as his eyes; Kurogane knows nothing ever will be._ )

He is smiling, but something veiled flickers in his gaze and this secrecy is irritating, itching at Kurogane in a way the man’s carefully polite demeanour ( _always respectful, always distant, no games of chase-the-kitty, no poking the sleeping dog_ ) has been for weeks. He snaps, growls a warning -“Keep staring and I’ll dump your skinny ass in the ocean too”- as he stomps up the sand and before he can regret it ( _too familiar with someone who does not know they know you_ ) Fai lets loose a peal of laughter, teeth flashing white and wide in his brilliant ( _playful, painful, perfect_ ) smile.

“If you could catch me, Kuro-tan~!”

The knife that twists in his chest ( _Kuro-tan, Kuro-rin, Kuro-pon, Kuro-pin, Kuro Kuro Kuro-sa~ma~!_ ) catches him off-guard. He blinks, and immediately the mage claps a hand over his mouth, staring up at him, into the sun, eyes shocked and squinting.

“What did you call me?”

“I’m sorry, Kurogane-san- that was impolite. I won’t do it again.” The mage smiles, disarming, but blue eyes flick to his face with a nervous chuckle, as though expecting anger, retribution from the tall, sullen warrior he is still unfamiliar to, “I couldn’t tell you what came over me-”

“I don’t,” says Kurogane, tongue thick in his mouth, words clumsy, “ _mind_. I don’t mind. Call me- call me whatever you want.” His breath comes in a rush, urgent, salt sharp in his lungs, seaspray wet on his lips. “’s not like I  _care_.”

Fai whistles, clumsy, that strange little ‘ _hyuuu_ ~!’ and shakes his head- but he is still smiling and if there are shadows in his eyes, they are curious and nothing more; laughter drops from his lips in short, dewy bursts. “Whatever you say, Kuro-chan.”

In spite of himself, he bristles. “Don’t call me  _that_. I’m not a girl.”

More laughter. “Of course not- Kuro-rin is so  _manly_ , playing in the surf~!”

“Idiot.”

It is very, very hard to walk away. The world has titled on its axis; he is unbalanced, his treacherous legs unsteady on the sand. Kurogane places one foot in front of the other, busies himself with brushing grit and salt and tiny silvery scrapings from the fish he scaled earlier off his metal fingers, and very, very carefully does not look back. The mage leaps into the water; the shouting and sounds of a splashing fight follow him up the beach.

Later Mokona prattles on about an epic sea-battle, of which it was -naturally- the victor; Fai and Syaoran drip salt-water on the campfire and make it hiss and splutter, and when the earring the white thing bears glows blue, none of them are particularly surprised. The magic that swirls about them is only marginally less dizzying than the open-mouthed grin Fai favours him with, but then Kurogane is dissolving into the rush and tingle of transfer between worlds, and has no time to linger on the breath ( _the hope, the stupid, stupid hope_ ) that catches in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is the point where the story starts to get moving a bit more, even if the plot isn't. (Let's be honest- this is more about the _feels_ than it is about the plot.) I've always loved the way Kurogane and Syaoran interact; I really enjoyed playing with that here.


	3. Chapter 3

It is seven months, three weeks, four days and seventeen hours after Kurogane joined your small group when you remember you are a vampire.

Although that is not exactly true ( _liar, liar mage, lie to them all and lie to yourself_ ); you had not really forgotten, just… misremembered. Like you do for a lot of things these days, it seems, your thoughts slippery things that run like oil through your fingers, leaving your hands slick with ( _regret?_ )… something. You don’t remember that either.

You  _do_ , however, remember the hunger, the thirst ( _red red red, paints your teeth, stains your lips, meets your gaze with nothing like fear and everything you want to hate_ ) and the sudden, ripping pain in your gut shocks the breath from your lungs as you jolt upright. The room is dark, unfamiliar- you have not been in this world for very long, and have yet to become accustomed to the towering building your small group calls home; you stagger from the bed, the carpet thick and soft beneath your feet, and stagger towards the door.

Your hands are shaking. Your fingernails, still short ( _long, curling, razor talons thick with gore and your enemies fall one by one by one_ ) scrabble against the handle, little  _tik-tik-tik_ s against the metal. The hallway light is on and viciously bright; a soft hiss escapes you as you force the door open and the glow cuts a thick swathe of yellow across your face, bleeding past you and into the room. Your eyes hurt, the left more than the right; something insidious curls and curdles in your stomach- probably dinner ( _steak and vegetables and bread do not satisfy, no matter how the taste pleases you; even the wine, the sweet burn down your throat that pools warmth in your belly, is not enough_ ) and you wonder, briefly, if you will throw up.

You threw up a lot in Infinity. Rare were the mornings when the pain didn’t claw at your skull and dance across your ( _impaired_ ) vision in spots of black and white; you grew used to the taste of bile, acid burning your tongue and surging into your mouth with your every shaky step, and kept a tight leash on the agony ( _mustn’t let the princess know, mustn’t let her see, keep your mask in place, even as it cracks_ ) as you watched the others ( _watched him_ ) eat their breakfast. It got better with time, lessened its grip as the hole in your head healed ( _but your other wounds festered, poisonous and raw and too-knowing eyes saw that even if you refused to_ ) and it was not very long -only a month or two- before the hurting stopped ( _it never stopped_ ).

But that was Infinity, and you do not know this world’s name yet, do not know much about it all, except  _here_  is not  _there_  and the man whose room you travel to was not  _there_  either ( _he was, and your feet wore a path in the carpet outside his bedroom_ ), none of which tells you why your hand curls so readily about the handle. The door opens silently, and does not wake him, because Kurogane is not asleep and merely sits in a chair beside the bed, head turned towards you as though waiting for your arrival. On the table, a knife, and the dim light of the lamp glitters across its edge.

Between the need that roars in your blood and the rumble of his heartbeat in your ears ( _so loud, so loud, you have pressed your head to that chest and still heard it no louder than you do now in the grip of hunger_ ) you do not think to ask why; perhaps you should, but there is no space for questions in your mouth now, not with your breath whistling through your teeth, panting and urgent.

He beckons with a nod; you step forward and sink easily to your knees, down onto the carpet, onto the thick towel waiting at the foot of the chair ( _he had always laid down a_   _cloth to catch the drips, but you never let any go past your mouth_ ) and he drags a blade across his wrist in a steady, easy movement that speaks of many repetitions. The knife is sure and true in steel fingers, and you want to ask how he learnt to do this so well ( _once every three days, more after injury, more after the fighting starts_ ) but then rubies well up across the cut line and you can’t  _think_  anymore.

His pulse throbs beneath your lips, rich and red and so, so  _hot_  ( _like his touch, like his hands, like the long line of his body pressed up against yours_ ); you taste copper, salt and the walls built up inside you fall and crumble in the face of the liquid, living  _strength_ that floods your mouth ( _as they always have, all your walls have fallen long ago, fallen to this man, and you let him in once again as you have many times before_ ) and the hunger twisting in your gut eases, the burn in your throat soothed at last. You drink, his blood washes past your teeth ( _so good_ ) and when you are done it is too easy to trail your tongue down across a wet trickle that slips down his forearm to pool in the hollow of his elbow.

He makes a sound, one you have never heard from him before ( _you have_ ), and you dare to meet his ( _knowing, accepting, and -gods help you both- wanting_ ) gaze as your lips trace up, up, up his arm. You couldn’t stop, even if you wanted to ( _you don’t)_  and a shiver ripples down your spine at the sparks those eyes cast off against your own. Your mouth breaks from his skin at the level of his sleeve; cotton brushes against your cheek, a soft rasp, and before you can help yourself ( _you can’t_ ) you lift your head and tilt forward, just enough to bring your lips into contact.

And for a second, a perfect,  _glorious_ , impossible second, you-

( _remember, remember his name, Kurogane Kurogane Kurogane, Kuro-tan, Kuro-rin, Kuro-pon, Kuro-pin, Kuro Kuro Kuro-sama!_; _remember what he means to you, what he is, hero-saviour-lover, prey and predator both; remember red eyes always always always watching, even and especially when you wished they weren’t; remember him never falling, never giving up, never giving in, never letting go; remember Hanshin Spirit Oto Edonis Shura Yama Piffle Recourt Tokyo Infinity Ceres Nihon Clow and all the worlds thereafter; remember teasing, laughing, chasing, playing, fighting, wanting; remember sweat and screams and blood and sex and hope and tears and fear and pain and love and sacrifice; remember rememberremember!)_

-forget that he is still a stranger to you.

( _he’s not_ )

Beneath the blood on your tongue he tastes electric ( _ozone burning before the storm_ ); the movement of his mouth against yours is the first breath drawn after almost-drowning and just as sweet ( _so greedy, suck him down_ ), and you wonder how he knows to be this gentle ( _just rough enough_ ) as a metal hand threads cool fingers through your hair and eases you both apart.

“Enough. Enough. Any more and I…”

The words are almost a sigh, trailing off into nothing, and he slips his hand free, trails fingertips down and across your cheek. “If you need more, come to me. Don’t… don’t think you can’t. But tonight, this is all I can give.” He closes his eyes, and you think you should be embarrassed, to be so forward; you’ve never approached anyone, not in all the time you’ve travelled with Syaoran and your princess ( _he approached you_ ), and it is strange to think this man who barely knows you ( _knows you like no other_ ) would offer you his blood so readily with no explanation as to why you need it.

_(he doesn’t need one)_

You chase the last few drops from the corner of your mouth and thank him; your voice is calm and steady and none of the yawning doubt in your mind leaks through to your words. He nods, accepting, and you venture that it should be some time again before you need this once more- the vampire rarely stirs need beneath your skin these days, your magic lets it sleep, and human food is enough to keep you alive and healthy, if not wholly satisfied.

“Don’t push yourself, mage. What you need is what you need,” and Kurogane opens those red eyes, “and whatever it is, if I can give it to you, then I will.”

( _so honest)_

His words follow you out the door, back to bed, and you lie awake in the dark ( _you will never not taste him on your tongue_ ) for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always found Fai's vampire nature fascinating, and not just for the fang-porn (though that's totally part of it, let's be real here). In my mind, he does retain the vampire blood post-series, albeit somewhat reduced; it was never clear that what Yuuko said about the return of his magic 'freeing' Fai from the vampiric blood was actually true, or just a comforting sop to ease the minds of his companions.
> 
> That and it adds a whole new level to the relationship Fai has with Kurogane; for someone who wants to remain clear of all ties and connections, the blood-bond must have been terrifying.


	4. Chapter 4

The water is cold and crashes over his shoulders in a numbing tide; the scar where metal meets skin burns coolly, pins and needles prickling phantom flesh. Kurogane grits his teeth and picks up the bucket again; his breath _whooshes_  out of his chest as more water splashes down, ears ringing and eyes closed against the stinging suds that rush down his face. There are many things wrong with this world ( _too cold, too small, weak booze, pointless dirty jobs that barely earn him enough money to keep their small house heated and the lot of them fed_ ) but at least the bathrooms -wooden, wide, spacious, with tubs large enough to soak away a day’s worth of aches and pains- are similar enough to the ones he back in Nihon, and therefore good. It is, he thinks, a wonderful thing to come home from a hard day of labour and soak his muscles loose once more in a proper bath.

Or at least it would be if the kid and the pork bun  _had left him any hot water_.

He settles for a scrub and rinse-down with water long-since chilled, and so takes a seat on a low bench to lather up, washing away what feels like half a tonne of dirt and grime from the yard with another slosh from the bucket that chases bubbles down his body and into the slats of the drain, wincing as the motion pulls at his shoulder. Hard labour is something he’s good at, but the seam of his mechanical arm aches where wires and cables snake under his skin ( _the winter’s cold claws at his flesh and chills him to the bone; he dreads to think what would happen to him if he were caught in snow_ ), and sweat and dust blister on still-tender scar tissue.

Scraping the last of the grit from steel cable with a stiff-bristled brush, ignoring the spots of blood that well-up around where metal is spliced to meat, Kurogane stretches and groans, dumping the last of the water over his head in a chilly torrent; he shakes it from his hair and wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand- and when he looks up, Fai is sitting on the cabinet opposite him, long legs dangling off the edge of the raised bench. The mage toys with the folded towel he had left for himself, tilts his head to the side as he looks down at Kurogane, who is trying his best not to let his heart jump out of his throat- ninja should not be so easily startled, nor half-wit blonde mages so damn stealthy!

“Cold water, Kuro-tan? I wouldn’t have picked you for the self-torturing type.” Something inscrutable glitters in that sly gaze, and his breath yanks tight in his chest as Fai leans forward, propping an arm on a bony knee and resting his chin in his palm; blue eyes flick across his body, travelling lazily downwards, unhurried and unhindered. Kurogane grunts in irritation, metal fingers twitching as he fights the urge to cover himself; he’ll be damned if he’ll give the blonde the satisfaction of knowing he’s discomforted, but he’s not going to sit here and be leered at ( _not with the confusion that Fai is fighting so hard to hide behind that smile, not with the heat that glows in those eyes, the conflict between the two warring across that thin, worried face_ ) and so he stands and crosses to the cabinet and snatches the towel held out to him by long-fingered hands.

“Wasn’t any hot left,” he grunts, wrapping the rough-spun cloth about his waist. “What d’you want, mage? You already had the bathroom, and I don’t remember inviting you to wash my back.” The last slips out before he can stop himself, Fai’s mouth dropping open in shock, and something like shame ( _and heat, sharp and jagged, spikes in his blood; it is all too easy to remember the slow-slick-slide of soapy skin as the blonde pressed up against him, wet mouth whispering wicked things in his ear)_ twists in his gut- this is not  _his_  mage, a different man entirely, and he must not forget that.

“Huh… who says you have no sense of humour?” A slow smile eases across Fai’s face ( _a mask_ ) as one thin eyebrow quirks upwards, and he grunts again, turns away and stomps across the slick floorboards, forcing down the blush burning up his neck. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you, and I figured it would be easiest to catch you alone here. I… wanted privacy for what I have to say.”

He almost drops his towel. The wooden shelf he was reaching for, the one with his clothes for the night folded upon, creaks ominously as metal fingers spasm with shock and bite into wood far softer than his forceful grip. With some difficulty he prises his hand free, splinters catching in the woven steel of his fingertips, and the cables and cords that thread his shoulder lash tight; Kurogane swallows down something that would be a hiss of pain ( _an admission of weakness, an opportunity for self-pity, both concepts alien to him like nothing else and so refused outright_ ) and is silent as blood oozes up around the join and slips in hot trickles down his chest and back.

Kurogane can  _feel_  Fai’s sudden interest ripple through the air as an explosion of tension, the pressure of those eyes on him turning predatory in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His shoulders stiffen accordingly as the mage ( _vampire)_  crosses the room in a fraction of a second; he does not need to look to know that blue eyes are gilded with hunger, and the slow press of a single fingertip sliding up his spine ( _fire twists beneath his skin, flames licking against that single point of contact, a bonfire in his blood_ ) and into the wet warmth seeping down from his shoulder is expected but no less affecting, and his pulse jumps and stutters in a too-tight throat.

The rippled edge of puckered flesh catches on smooth fingertips; Fai makes a soft sound, and leans forward ( _too close, too close, not close enough_ ) to breathe hot on the clawing, curling scar tissue that crowds his back. “ _So many scars_ ,” comes the whisper, the mage’s voice thick and slurring as hunger colours his words, and Kurogane’s metal hand slams through the thin wooden shelf in a crunching, crushing blow; Kurogane shudders, a desperate, uncontrolled motion as the hot slide of a wet tongue kisses against bloodied skin, forcing a strangled groan from between his teeth.

“I want to know how you were wounded so badly,” murmurs Fai, lips moving across bloody trickles, and one thin hand catches his hip, fingers knotting in the coarse thread of the towel that Kurogane hangs onto for dear life as he is pushed forward and against the shelves. “I do not know you so well, Kurogane-san, not nearly as well as I find I need to,” and on the word  _need_  a shudder rolls down his spine, speeding his breath, and Fai sighs, pressing an open-mouth to his bleeding shoulder, “and as soon as I saw your back so long ago, your hurts bare for all to see, I knew I had to ask, even if you wouldn’t tell me.” The mage pauses, a bitter chuckle tickling Kurogane’s skin and something odd ( _shame? Embarrassment? Rue?_ ) creeps into that soft tone, even as a surprisingly strong hand grips his other arm, holding him still. “I... it is still strange to me, this hunger; I don’t remember feeling like this before I met you, I must have at some point, but even just the smell of your blood makes me so, so  _thirsty_ \- I didn’t expect this to happen, but now I find I can’t stop.”

He can’t quite tell if the blonde is speaking to him or just voicing his thoughts aloud, but it doesn’t really matter now, not with Fai taking small, butterfly-sips of his blood; each small caress of soft lips sets his head to spinning and it is very, very hard to draw his mind away from that touch and back to the words spoken to him.

“What,” says Kurogane finally, a few moments later, and his voice is rough even to his own ears, rasping out of his throat, “what do you want to know?” The mage is not the only one having trouble with restraint; encouraging Fai’s curiosity will only lead to more questions, questions he cannot answer. He hides truth, omits it, dodges and ducks away from it, but he cannot ( _will not_ ) lie; if Fai asks him about the holes in his memory that grow increasingly obvious with every passing day spent in Kurogane’s own company, he will answer as best he can and the ruse will be exposed ( _and the hole in his chest he tries desperately to keep pinched shut may well tear open when the price the mage paid spends itself once more_ ).

“Magic did this,” and Fai traces the whorl of scar tissue across his shoulder-blade with the tip of a warm tongue, “magic meant to cut and kill with knives of wind,” and Kurogane feels dread pool in his gut as blood drips from his chest to his waist, red droplets soaking into the towel’s edge, “magic like  _mine_ ,” and the sudden, broad lick that sweeps up and towards the join of his metal arm sends his thoughts spiraling back to their last night spent in the time-locked country of Clow ( _the mage’s mouth so hungry, the clutch of his hands desperate, fear and love and despair earthing themselves in barely restrained passion that scorched him to the bone and fed his courage for the battle to come_ ) even as those words recalled the acid-spattered ruin that was Tokyo.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Kurogane; Fai groans and moves to scrape the edge of his throat with sharp teeth. His knees nearly buckle, only stubbornness and his hand gripping ruined wood keeps him upright as the mage all but swoons against him and presses him into the shelving, a line of heat and lean muscle against his spine. Blood soaks into the mage’s shirt, he can feel the fabric catch and stick to his skin, and Fai’s fingers bruise his hip as he is gripped tighter still.

“No one has magic like mine,” hisses Fai against his throbbing pulse, “you must be  _lying_ ,” and the thin cord of anger in that silky voice twists and pulls at Kurogane, tangling into a knot of lust and need in the base of his belly; there is a promise of violence in that statement if an explanation is not given ( _impossibly arousing, and he has to wonder at his own sanity that the edge of pain purring in Fai’s words would affect him so),_  and his head grows light, dizzy with more than the throbbing pain in his shoulder as the blood in his veins turns tidal and surges towards his groin. He needs to stop this now; any more temptation and the last straining strands of his self-control will snap, and sweaty, slippery sex on the bathroom floor is  _not_  what the mage came to see him for.

Kurogane drags in an aching breath, forces his voice level. “I never lie-” ( _not to you_ ) “-it’s true.”

Fai tenses, drawing blood as sharp fingernails bite into his right biceps; something like fear bleeds into the mage’s words ( _confusion and desperation and loneliness all jumbled into one miserable mess of emotion_ ) and his lips barely graze against the skin of Kurogane’s throat as he speaks. “I would have-  _I would have remembered fighting you_ ,” and Fai’s voice trembles, “surely… I would…” 

Something like a snarl tears itself from the man then; thin, strong hands grip him, pull him and spin him about to thump heavily against the wood, splinters digging into his back. A grunt claws his throat; Kurogane bites it back, forces himself to look at burning gold, tears blistering the edges of Fai’s gaze as the mage slams a pale hand against his chest to demand his attention, fingers slipping in the blood dripping down tanned skin.

“ _Tell me!_ ”

“ _Syaoran_ ,” he groans, and Fai slams his shoulders back with a sob, broken shelf digging painfully into his spine, “one of his eyes was  _blue_ ,” and a bloody hand smears red up his chest as the mage curls long fingers about his throat, squeezing enough that darkness flickers at the edges of his vision, “there was  _blood_ -” he chokes, loses the words ( _loses the thread, no idea what he can say next that won’t give him away; knows that if he has to voice that sick, swooping terror he felt at seeing Fai broken at the boy’s feet he won’t be able to stop himself and will shatter any illusions the mage might have as to their relationship_ ) and loses his breath in the next moment as Fai moans and slams their mouths together in a brilliant, burning clash of lips and teeth.

This kiss is nothing like the last the mage gave him. There is nothing slow and gentle here, no sense of inevitability or wonderment ( _that was confusion and hope and something like realisation, that they could do this, that this was a possibility for them both, that there was more to the mage’s life than loneliness and need_), no compassion as he is consumed; copper and salt blooms in his mouth as sharp teeth graze him, and there is sudden pain as Fai snakes one hand into his hair and  _yanks_ , pulling him down for better access, wicked,  _wicked_  tongue chasing the taste past his lips ( _this is pain and rage and fear, that there is something out of reach, something familiar and unknown and a contradiction to all Fai knows but does not remember and wants so badly_) and it is all he can do to hold on as the mage surges forward against him, devouring and desperate.

Kurogane is a hairs-breadth from giving up, giving in; wood groans in counterpoint to the quick, shuddering pounding of his heart as his metal fingers smack against the cabinet for support. Fai arches against him, spine taut as a bow-string; Fai snaps, the space between them evaporates and the mage collapses against him in a boneless rush of heat and contact, smearing blood on Kurogane’s skin. His arm snaps out, snakes across the small of Fai’s back; his fingertips  _burn_  as he peels back the man’s thin shirt and slips his hand up and under, tracing the bumps of his spine and the muscle that tenses and flexes beneath his palm.

He should stop, he should stop ( _he can’t)_ , he should do anything other than what he actually is, which is bringing his metal arm round -ignoring the pain, the blood as wire pulls tight and his skin tears- to grab a handful of cloth and  _pull_ ; the seams of Fai’s shirt strain, tensing with a low whine of splitting fabric and finally come loose in a ripping rush as he tears the shirt from the mage’s back with a brutal yank. Fai gasps, a sudden ringing space between the heat of their mouths, and Kurogane drags in an urgent breath and drags Fai closer in one shared moment, forcing the blonde to straddle the thigh that slips neatly between lean legs.

The towel around his hips slips, forgotten, unimportant, furthest thing from his mind right now; he drops his handful of torn clothing to the floor and uses two metal fingers to tip Fai’s head back, just enough to look into his eyes ( _blue blue blue_   _so blue_   _blue like he’s never seen in Nihon or any of the worlds since_ ) and know that this is  _not_  the vampire, this is not hunger blurring the line between lust and thirst- this is  _Fai_ , whose panting gasps tickle his mouth ( _so close could just breathe him in_ ) and whose hand slips gently to the curve of his neck, fingertips pushing into his hair and whose eyes are searching his with unbearable urgency, looking for gods-know-what in Kurogane’s own gaze-

“Kuro-sama,” whispers Fai, and Kurogane holds his breath ( _do you remember me?)_  but whatever words the mage would speak are lost in the sudden rattle of wood and the boy’s voice-

_“Fai-san? Are you in here? Only, Mokona’s earring has started glowing and we should be getting ready to leave-”_

-and Fai shudders against him, turns his face into the pulse that skips and hammers in Kurogane’s throat as one slender arm rises, lean fingers flicking whirling, twisted bands of light at the just open doorway, the screen clattering shut with enough sped to make the rollers screech and nearly clip the nose from Syaoran’s young face.

“Don’t come in right now, Syaoran-kun,” rasps Fai, lips moving against Kurogane’s skin; he can’t even think to move, something tight squeezing his chest ( _disappointment/despair/distress_ ) until his heart thuds painfully against the heaving cage of his ribs. “I’m not decent.”

“ _Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… but Mokona says we don’t have much time left. If you could hurry? I have to find Kurogane-san and tell him as well_.”

“I’ll let him know if I see him. I’ll be there soon, don’t you worry,” and even the boy hears the grating fake cheer in the mage’s voice; a moment passes where the mage just trembles, body pressed tight against Kurogane, so close he can feel the hummingbird flutter of his panicked heartbeat- but then Syaoran is leaving, footsteps strangely muted against the blood that roars in Kurogane’s ears, static in his brain, and Fai tears himself away with a wrenching gasp, staggering over slippery, still-wet floorboards in urgent haste.

That hurts a little, but so does waking up every morning ( _alone_ ) and Kurogane pays it no mind ( _lying to himself not good_ ), just grabs the towel that threatens to slide down his front and looks away as Fai chokes back a hissed stream of words -nonsense, gibberish, sounds that Mokona either can’t or won’t translate- and runs out the door, away from Kurogane ( _thought we’d left the running behind_ ), almost crashing through it in his haste.

For a moment he thinks about driving his fist into the wall and how satisfying the crunch of bone and concrete would be, but he only has one flesh-and-blood arm these days and the damage would just be a waste. The blood drying on his skin itches. He doesn’t want to think ( _can’t stand it so damn close and yet still so far away_ ) so just goes through the motions, scrubs himself down once more, dries himself off and dresses with a mindless kind of efficiency that has nothing to do with the numbness eating away at his core.

The mage doesn’t meet his gaze when he makes it to the leaving room, but that’s ( _nothing new Infinity all over again_ ) fine, and he lets himself be swept up and into Mokona’s magic, air that tastes like feathers whistling down his throat, and does not think about Fai ( _liar_ ) when the world breaks down into swirling lights and wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that have not read this before, this story will have a happy ending, come hell or high water. We just have to get there first.


	5. Chapter 5

The rain breaks on the third day, storm-clouds splitting open like eggshells and the sunlight is as thick and viscous as albumen as it oozes through the misty, grey-green blur of forest that surrounds your small group. There are no people you have found, no lives other than the small creatures that flicker in bursts of muted noise through damp leaves. No birds either, and any sound is dampened by the dripping of water. The ground is slick with moisture, slippery underfoot; the three of you walk in a slow, single line through the winding trees, and Mokona peers aimlessly through the brush from its perch on Syaoran’s head as the boy ploughs through the wet undergrowth, branches lashing splashes of dripping water over his cloak.

The forest smells clean, crisp; each breath you take curls through your teeth like fog. Your boots slide over the moss-slicked leaf-litter and you stumble- steel fingers close about your arm, a steadying pressure, guiding you back onto safer ground. You snatch your arm out of his grip ( _heartbeat stuttering, shuddering at the touch, ba-thump ba-thump ba-thump_ ) with a snap of your cloak and quicken your steps, almost slipping in your haste to catch up to Syaoran.

“Watch it.” Kurogane shoulders past you ( _don’t look at him_ ) and pushes back a heavy branch -more like half a tree, really- scattering raindrops in a short, cold shower over you both; your cloak is heavy, oil-slicked leather, so the water rolls off you for the most part, a few cold trickles soaking your hair and snaking down the back of your hood. “You fall and hurt yourself, I’m not carrying you.”

You don’t doubt it, and say so, the words slipping sharp enough to cut even your own tongue; the acidic twist to your cheerful voice does not faze him and there is nothing to read in his face as you duck under his arm and quick-step to draw level with the boy ( _such_   _liars, the both of you; he has carried you more times than you care to count, broken and bloodied but never beaten, his grip never anything but strong and sure_ ), your skin prickling beneath layers of damp cloth as his gaze falls on your back.

Mokona makes a sound, soft and thin and miserable, ears drooping even as Syaoran’s shoulders stiffen beneath his cloak and guilt needles you; not good for the children to see their parents fighting after all-  but the joke is a thin one and you don’t voice it.

You don’t talk to him any more after that ( _couldn’t_   _if you wanted to, your heart thudding thick in the back of your throat until even the words you can’t speak taste like blood_ ), just march onward, and every step taken on unsteady ground sinks you just a little more.

Hours pass and you clear the forest near sundown; the trees break and thin enough for long umber slats of dying light to scatter fading sunbeams in the water dripping from the canopy. Orange-spangled raindrops patter onto your face as you step out from the undergrowth and into a field, long grass susurrant in the evening hush, and you wipe the last traces of water from your eyes and hair as the three of you strip off your cloaks, Mokona leaping gleefully from Syaoran’s shoulder and disappearing into the knee-high strands with a giggle and  _shussshh_  of rustling greenery.

“Mokona, don’t wander too far,” calls the boy, but the worry in his voice is gone even as he stretches, holding out his hands to catch the last rays of sunlight that trickle between his splayed fingers. “If you get lost, we won’t be able to find you in there.”

“Mokona has an excellent sense of direction~!” is the cheery response, ripples lapping through the sea of grass as the small creature bounces about the field. You can’t help but laugh, and when Syaoran starts moving towards a low hill that slopes out of the forest’s shadow, you trail along behind, heavy cloak folded and dripping over your arm. The sunlight, fading though it is, is still warm; you turn your face towards the sinking sun, a gold-orange-red blur against the purple sky and the blue silhouette of the treeline-

-and your gaze falls on Kurogane, stepping out from the forest’s long shadow, catches on the patterns of fading light that scatter over his face, the sunset glow that warms his eyes; your breath hooks in your throat, too sharp to swallow and some sweet pain burns in your chest ( _heartbeat racing_ , _roaring  at the sight_,  _ba-thump ba-thump ba-thumpba-thumpba-thump_ ) but you can’t turn away as he wades into the grass ( _couldn’t turn away even if you wanted to_ ), dark hair still wet with the last fall of rain from the canopy, and he looks at you, just  _looks_  at you ( _piercing, sharp, in-and-out-and-right-through, everything you ever were pinned and vulnerable beneath him and gods but you never want him to look away_), sunlight bleeding into the bruised horizon in broken streaks of colour, never so red as that burning gaze, those  _eyes_ -

( _ba-thumpba-thumpba-thumpBATHUMPBATHUMPBATHUMP-!_ )

-and the moment, whatever it is, passes as the sun dips below the skyline in one last brilliant blur; twilight tumbles upon you in a silken fall of darkness and you lose whatever it was that held you still and breathless ( _his gaze, the burn, the glow_ ) as Mokona leaps up high from the grass, gasping in amazement when the stars come out. You remember how to breathe ( _heat and tension painting every huffing breath_ ) and very carefully do not look at the man who comes to stand not too far from your side ( _lies, you look, just a little, only from the corner of your eye_ ) as Syaoran begins to point out the constellations he knows, strange tales of men and gods; you think of Ceres, of the palace library, of studying the signs and portents in the heavenly firmament under your kings’ tutelage, and that you can think of Ashura at all without crippling guilt is a new and fragile thing.

( _but you’re not thinking of Ashura, you’re thinking of him; his hands rough and warm and so good on your skin)_

The moons, three of them, bright and blue and beautiful, rise not much longer after that; the three of you lay down your cloaks and camp out under the stars, a rough semi-circle as Mokona toys with this leaf and that twig, rolling smooth pebbles that shine dimly in the starlight about its small feet. Long white ears flutter in the light breeze, blue gem earring jangling, and the wind presses a cool caress against your skin, but the ground beneath your cloak is warm, earth and grass soaked in the day’s sunlight, and you are not cold. Even the chilly air between you and the dark-haired warrior nearby your impromptu bed has thawed somewhat; in a moment of stunning clarity you realise that what lies unspoken between you is no less sincere for all that it is sudden  _(four years and more worlds than you can count is not sudden)_ , and though you are not ready to forgive  _(yourself)_  him for the hurt ( _confusion, frustration, aching need)_  he has caused, perhaps your anger is unwarranted.

Words claw in your throat, painful ( _a good pain, a good pain, something you can hold on to even as the things you struggle to remember melt like mist_ ) and when you turn to speak to him -an apology, an explanation, you can’t be sure- his eyes are black and unreadable in the darkness-

( _like Yama all over again; you spent hours chasing the ghost of scarlet in that gaze, but the only red you ever saw was the bloody starbursts of the men you killed, back to back with him in battle_ )

-and you lose what you were going to say.

You fall asleep listening to Syaoran talking about the stars and the sound of Mokona singing absent-minded lullabies in a sweet, high voice; when you wake it is barely dawn, the feathery light as grey as dove-wings, and just as soft. Kurogane is gone; slipped away while you slept, leaving cloak and armour -but not his sword- in a neat pile in the shadows of the flattened grass where he slept. Waking and finding him gone is not unusual; in the time you have travelled with him ( _longer than you think_ ) you’ve yet to see him sleep past dawn.

Syaoran is asleep, the cool pale light of morning gentle on his face, sleep smoothing the worried wrinkle from his brow; something like peace rests in the shadow of closed eyes, in the curve of his mouth- thoughts of his princess, then, and you would not wake him from those dreams. You are near silent as you rise, and though Mokona’s ears twitch at the slight rasp of grass beneath your feet, the small creature does not stir, merely turns over in the fold of Syaoran’s cloak tucked around its small form.

The grassy field ripples as you wade into the green waves that lap at your thighs; sunlight, barely breaking over the canopy of the forest, warms your back as you crest the hill- it is not very hard to see him from this height, even in the low blue shadows that roll across the plain, but it  _is_  hard not to stand and stare.

You know he’s skilled with a blade, knew it within days of meeting him; you’ve seen that skill first hand, watched the bodies fall like string-cut puppets in thick splashes of gore ( _red like his eyes, like his pulse beneath your tongue, like the breath of the dragon that sleeps beneath his skin_ ), but you’ve never seen it quite like this.

Step. Turn. Step, slash, turn. Step, step, thrust -slow,  _so slow_ , perfectly controlled, steel sliding into in the belly of an imaginary enemy in one slick push; a flick of the wrist, blade dragging  _up_ , spilling blood and entrails in a rush of agony- and stop. Dragging half-step, turn and  _lunge_  -burst of speed, bodies falling where they may, gore spraying thick and wet in the air- and slash, once, twice, a quick succession of blurring steel. Eyes closed, head lowered in concentration; grass rippling in rolling waves with every quick step, the roaring hush ringing in your ears, and Kurogane turns, steps, blade a burning flash of silver as he brings it down, breath exhaling with a sharp ‘ _hah!_ ’ as yet another shadow-foe falls to the dragon’s teeth.

The grass-stems bend, bow down in a surge of whispering sussurance; waves billow out from that last strike, a rolling tide of energy that floods the grassy sea and speeds across the plain, roars up the hill where you stand and numbs your legs, up through boots and feet and blood, sinking to the very bone in a stinging rush.

Your chest hurts. Like being clawed open from the inside, rib-cracking pain as you refuse to breathe ( _break the spell_ ) as he weaves steel and air into a razored web of slicing light and glowing, cutting sorcery.  _No magic here_ , whispers a voice in the back of your head,  _no magic; just the man at the centre of the whirlwind_  and you swear you can see the serpent flowing smooth beneath the flex and twist of muscle and tendon in his every movement.

The air whines with stress as Ginryuu shears through it; your teeth hum with the pressure as Kurogane spins, stamps one foot and brings his blade up and out; there is no explosion of power, no crackling waves of scorching energy as your mind  _insists_  there must be- just  _will_  and  _intent_  and a  _determination_  one could bend steel around ( _crush fate, rip destiny apart, bring the dream crashing down_ ) and when his eyes open, you finally drag in a breath of air that hisses dry and sharp into your aching lungs.

“Kata,” says Kurogane, the word carrying easily across suddenly still air.  _Sword dance,_  your mind corrects, and both of you are right as he brings the blade home to sheath in a fluid movement. “You’re normally not awake this early,” he continues, taking a step towards you, “if I’d known you were watching, I would have-” and cuts himself short with a snap, gaze ( _hot, red, aching_ ) raking across your face as he turns his head away. The rising sun touches his face, golden fingers burnishing his skin, a melting glow in burning eyes; before you can stop yourself, you take a step forward- and then another and another and  _another_ , all blurring into one quick movement as you almost-slide down the slope and do not stop until you are at the bottom.

_Would have what?_  you want to ask,  _would have what?_  and the words feel like stones, pressing heavy on your tongue; it is too easy to open your mouth and let them tumble out.

“This,” says Kurogane, and  _moves_ , grass sighing in slow curls about you both as his steps quicken, and steel  _sings_  as Ginryuu is loosed once more, sunlight shattering bright on that rippled edge; he spins, slashes, drives the blade up and in and across in whirling, sun-spangled strokes. The snap of his steps sounds flat beneath the heartbeat thudding in your ears; cables and cords of steel and sinew coil as he takes Ginryuu in both hands, power burning in the wake of every movement, and brings the blade  _down_ -

-and the force of it blows your hair back, makes you stumble, flattens the grass in a wide ring about him; teeth bared ( _the dragon roars_ ) he turns again, wades into enemies unseen and in that fierce slash you see his steps change, the nature of this dance different from the first. Those movements were sharp, tight, defensive, the serpent twisting about itself in entwining loops of scale and steel;  _this_  is the silver dragon in glorious flight, wings spread, fangs gnashing, claws wide as it dives for prey to rend asunder- and  _Kurogane leaves himself unguarded_ , muscle rippling beneath the skin of that bare back, and without even thinking about it, you know _why_.

You are moving before you can stop yourself, spinning forward, and your feet know the steps before you take them ( _the body remembers_ ); your slender frame slides smoothly into the space he leaves for you and though at first he leads, it is not long before your movements weave together in a complex, twisting cascade of back-and-forth, forward-and-retreat.  Your hands are empty, palms tingling, fingertips  _itching_ ; you keep your nails short but only just ( _talons slice and slash and tear, blood splashing your face, your coat, but not a drop touches the man whose back you guard, whose life you are trusted with_ ) as Ginryuu screams through the air, triumphant, and it is all too easy to see what damage the two of you together could wreak.

( _they called you demons in Yama, the word unfamiliar in the surf of gibberish that washed about you, but the meaning terribly clear as fear flashed in the black eyes of your comrades- but you didn’t care, drank their terror down like wine and thought of nothing but the next moonrise; when battle-lust rolled like poison in your veins you let him draw you back from madness with the taste of him, sharp-salt-sweat, losing yourself in the tethers of loyalty and unspeakable honesty that tangled you together and made you unstoppable)_

When it ends ( _too soon, not enough, more more more_ ) your breath is a snarling hiss between your teeth; he throws back his head and  _laughs_ , and its resonance is raw and red ( _blood in the sound; need twisting in your gut_ ) and edged with a pain you can’t understand, can’t place in the tight, fierce space you have woven between you; your fingertips skim across his skin, scars slick with the first gloss of sweat, and a sunbeam shatters on the slope of his shoulder, steel hot with the flare of it as you press your hand to his back.

( _you never spoke of it after that, after you found the children again and you lost what secrecy the language barrier could give you; but in battle you were ever at his back, and you hope the gods had mercy on those that tried to tear him apart because you never did)_

He sighs, a slow exhalation, and beneath your hand steel shudders; he turns, Ginryuu loose in his grip, and as your fingers slip over his chest ( _his heart cupped beneath your palm_ ) the tip of the blade dips towards the swaying grass. “Fai,” he says, and the realisation ( _revelation_ ) is neither shocking nor sudden; the holes in your memory, the gaps that make your head hurt and your thoughts ache, are stripped bare by that one breath of a word, and you have to wonder that it took so long for you to put the pieces together.

He must see it in your face, your eyes; his breath draws tight and heaving, something desperate washes over him ( _so young, you think, so young; you have lived for centuries, but that space of time was so empty without him_ ) and the hand that rises to press metal fingers to your cheek is not shaking- but only just.

“Do you…?”

You could lie here, say that you remember him and while you could have been that cruel to him before ( _Infinity, oh gods, Infinity_ ), you do not and merely shake your head. No memories, not yet. But you remember they are gone, and that’s a start, and so is the kiss you press to his fingertips, sun-warmed steel wonderfully hot against your mouth. For a moment his thumb rests against the corner of your lips ( _the hunger in_   _red eyes could swallow you whole as they search your face_ ) and you think how very nice it would be to let that hand slip down, let those fingers stroke against the curve of your neck, splay over the slope of your shoulder and lower still… but it is definitely morning now, and Syaoran will be waking soon, and you bank the desire that glows like embers in your belly.

“That’s… we can,” he swallows, “talk. Later,” says Kurogane and just barely stumbles over the words, taking a step back, hand falling from your face and to his side ( _but not before grazing your chest, sparks from those fingertips burning through cloth and pooling under your tightening skin_ ), head turning to the hill behind you as he sheathes Ginryuu; the sun is high and hot in clear blue, the warmth of it rippling over shimmering metal.

“C’mon. The kid’s waiting.”

You smile ( _and it is real and honest and true, all the things this journey has taught you to be_ ); the weight is gone from your chest, and your heart is light as you climb the hill together, the grass swaying about your legs with every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're easing off the angst pedal a bit here. I loved writing this chapter. I love the thought of them sparring together, and the memories that the body retains when the heart forgets (such a huge theme in TRC) being tied to that muscle memory.


	6. Chapter 6

Syaoran’s brow knots with concentration as he stares down at the wooden bench. “Which one do you think Sakura would like best? The flower or the bird?”

“Mokona thinks the flower is best! It’s pretty, just like Sakura~!”

Kurogane snorts in amusement, rolling his eyes as the white thing bobs anxiously up and down on Syaoran’s shoulder, and brings the bottle held loosely in his left hand to his lips once more.

He is no stranger to harvest festivals, though he has never seen one as big as this. The few bright memories he has left of his childhood  _(before mother was sick, before the demons came, before he learned to hate)_  often feature the busy hustle of the harvest season, the yellow ginkgo leaves tumbling down over the marketplace and the bright coloured masks the village children wore as they dashed between their parent’s legs and chased each other about the stalls; if he concentrates the image of his mother’s smile as he gifted her a small trinket comes to mind, and riding high on his father’s broad shoulders, he knew the sight and sound of fireworks from the best vantage point in the whole town as coloured lights crackled across the stars, leaving the taste of black powder and smoke on the wind.

“But then, Mokona also thinks the bird is pretty too… Mokona doesn’t know!” Long ears swish about as the creature shakes its head urgently. Kurogane feels no need to chide the thing, though, and leans his head back against the wall of the stall, the slow release of the days heat gathered by the dark wood seeping through his clothes, half-closing his eyes as Syaoran swings his head back and forth between a comb engraved with delicate cherry blossoms and lacquered to a glossy shine, and a mirror beaded with the image of a songbird, wings spread across the back of the glass; an almost painful expression of indecision crinkles Syaoran’s face, and Mokona  _ums_  and  _ahs_  from its high perch.

Maybe it is the nostalgia that makes him indulgent; it is a pleasantly cool autumn afternoon in this market-world, and the slow warmth of the alcohol the mage has somehow managed to obtain  _(honey-wine, Fai had called it; hops and spice thick on his tongue, the sharp cut of apple-acid saving it from cloying sweetness)_  burns lazily down the back of his throat as he leans against the stall and waits for Syaoran to make up his mind. He watches the kid with something like amusement as a gloved hand hovers between the two trinkets, the stall-owner’s face open and encouraging and just a bit greedy, no doubt sensing a sale is close.

“Take it easy kid. Think too hard and you’ll pop a vein.”

Kurogane is in no hurry; the fingers of his metal hand curl gently round the neck of the bottle as he takes another mouthful  _(whatever this stuff is it’s pretty damn good)_  and that there is no corresponding pain in his shoulder -they were lucky to land in Piffle in the world before last, and there were surgeons and mechanics both waiting for him at Tomoyo’s insistence- is something he is grateful for. That, and the synthetic skin stretching over his metal bones; this world is much less advanced than Piffle, and questions about the machine grafted to his shoulder would only make life difficult.

“You could just get her both, you know,” he says and almost laughs when Syaoran and the pork bun both look at him like he’s just answered their prayers, and the kid turns back to the stall owner with a wide grin on his face.

Syaoran buys her a scarf too, a length of cherry-pink, cloud-soft silk to wrap her presents in; the kid carries his purchases with the same care he once carried the girl herself, and Mokona bounces gleefully along the road as they take the winding path towards the centre of the market-square. It is evening now, and the walls of this castle-town are well-lit with torches, the crowds of people streaming from the market stalls towards the large, cobbled square scattering flickering shadows across the stone. Kurogane wonders where the mage is, but there is no worry in the thought, just plain curiosity; he hasn’t seen Fai since earlier in the afternoon, when the mage disappeared with wave and a smile into the throngs of people that swelled the winding pathways about the market, his cloak snapping out in time with his quick, light steps.

“Wow, look at that! A party,  _a party!_  Mokona wants to play~!

“Ah-! Mokona-! Please don’t get too far ahead, if you get lost in the crowd we’ll never find you-” Syaoran cuts himself off with a sigh as Mokona leaps across the cobbles in great, springing bounds, delighting a group of giggling children as it spins into a barrel full of flowers and sends a surge of blossoms skyward. A little girl, her dark hair thick with petals, plucks Mokona from the fragrant pile, cuddling the small creature to her chest. Nearby, a woman with a feathered cap brings a flute to her lips, the sound high and clear; the child holding Mokona grabs tiny paws and swings the plump creature about in a wide arc, dancing to the music that floats soaring and sweet above the noise and chatter.

“Wah~! Dancing, dancing~! Syaoran, you come dance too!”

Before long it’s not just the children dancing; a wave of motion ripples through the gathered crowd, couples and groups spinning out through the square as the music rises, tempo quickening into something joyful and free. Head jerking between the spectacle and Kurogane himself, the kid shrugs helplessly, fighting back a grin as Mokona yells and cheers for him to join the chaos.

Kurogane shakes his head and plucks the collection of presents from Syaoran’s arms. “Gimme that.” Brown eyes blink up at him for a moment- then something like gratitude spills over that young face. He jerks his head back to the crowd. “Go on then.” He watches the kid disappear into the chaos with amusement, turning towards a ring of wooden benches around the edge of the square.

It’s long past evening and well into nightfall by the time the mage finds him, and a large bonfire blazes away in the centre of the square; the air is heavy with fragrant smoke as bundles of oil-soaked and perfumed sticks, tied with ribbons and strung with flowers, are tossed merrily into the flames by the cheerful crowd. Firelight flickers as gilded highlights in Fai’s hair as he weaves through the scattered groups of people, and Kurogane can only blink as the mage draws closer.

“I know,” says the blonde in response, and there is an edge of cheekiness in that rueful sigh as Fai stops in front of him, “but I didn’t have the heart to tell the young ladies no.” Fai slips his cloak free of his shoulders, heavy cloth bunching as he folds it into a neat bundle and tosses it onto the wooden bench beside Kurogane. The light of the bonfire casts a buttery glow over his pale features and the mage stretches  _(slow, languorous, the loose tunic belted about his hips billowing about his slender frame with each slight movement; the firelight drips a honeyed glow that pools in the kissing hollow of his throat and plunges down his low neckline to catch on the sliver of pale chest revealed),_  his hair tumbling in flaxen locks over his shoulders, making the delicate wreath of flowers that crowns him come loose and slip crookedly towards one ear. Blue petals are scattered haphazardly through pale tresses, twisted here and there into loose braids; a larger wreath swings about his neck as he shakes his head.

“No one has hair like mine you see,” continues the mage, reaching out a hand to close thin fingers about the neck of the bottle Kurogane holds loosely; plucking it gently from his grip, Fai lifts it to his mouth and takes a long, slow swallow, the sight of which is unexpectedly fascinating- and Kurogane has to wonder just how much alcohol he has managed to drink in these past few hours. He’s by no means drunk, but there is a warm buzzing in his blood that is only humming at a higher pitch now that Fai is in front of him  _(so hard to force himself to look away before Fai notices though he manages if only just)_  and he moves his focus back to the bottle as Fai hands it back, lips wet and smiling. “Oooh, that’s  _good_ … and different from the one I gave you this afternoon. More… apple-y. ‘s nice. What was I saying? Oh, yes, hair.”

That soft smile turns wicked as Fai sashays forward  _(snake hips)_  and straddles him, long legs splaying neatly about his thighs as the mage  _(the tease)_  settles himself in Kurogane’s lap; he doesn’t drop the bottle but his fingers tighten and glass squeaks warningly in his grip. “You see,” repeats Fai and the only thing Kurogane actually sees is blue eyes _(violet in the firelight, heavy-lidded and heavy-looking, the pressure prickling and unbearable where that gaze catches on his skin)_  and that mouth as Fai licks up a stray droplet clinging to the corner of his smile, “blonde hair is something of a novelty here. Blue eyes, pale skin too. They couldn’t believe my hair was  _real_ , Kuro-tan- had to keep touching it to be sure. And once they were certain I wasn’t some strange spirit come to snatch away their young ladies-” and Kurogane has to snort at that because if there’s one thing Fai would snatch away, it’s certainly not young  _ladies_  “-they just  _had_  to play with it. And you know me; I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”

He winks, and Kurogane flushes, though it’s not the wink that does it  _(Fai rocking his hips forward just a little at the same time, and heat curls in the base of his belly, slow and lazy and much like the promise glittering darkly in violet-kissed blue)_ , and struggles to come up with a good enough justification for pushing the man off his lap and onto the floor as the blonde makes himself comfortable in the most suggestive way possible; even if the expression on his face is innocent, those eyes are anything but.

“So. Flowers,” says Kurogane, because his pulse is roaring in his ears and he has to say  _something_  or else what he really wants to say  _(like more or harder or don’t stop)_  might slip out instead, but Fai apparently has no intention of getting off him and sitting on the bench beside him like a normal person, because the blonde merely nods -crown slipping further still, wreath of blue flowers covering one ear and dislodging a thin braid that swings forward to curl about his neck- and brings slender arms up to rest on Kurogane’s shoulders, tangling his fingers in the cloth of his cloak.

“Mm-hmm.” One hand slides across his shoulders, fingertips tapping at the top of his spine. “I think they suit me, don’t you?” Fai tips his head to the side, eyelids falling half-shut, the glow of the bonfire behind him casting his features into shadow. Orange flecks smoulder in blue eyes, reflected firelight almost as heated as the considering  _(hungry)_  look the mage gives him, that gaze trailing slow and hot over his face. 

Kurogane knows that look  _(has been waiting for it)_  and forces his twitching hands to still. The bottle in his left squeaks again, his too-strong fingers squeezing the glass, and he presses his right flat against the rough surface of the bench- the action shifts him, bends his spine back just enough for his hips to jerk forward  _(not entirely unwillingly_ ) and force Fai to slip forward in his lap, the blonde’s mouth falling open with a soft gasp, and something like a growl claws in his chest. Kurogane swallows it down; the sound is choked, tight, catching in his throat. “…how much have you had to drink?”

Fai shifts again, grinds forward; he grits his teeth against the heat that flares at that simple action and does not lift his hand to curl about a narrow hip, does not pull the other man closer. “Enough,” purrs the blonde, sliding long fingers up the nape of his neck and into dark hair, fingernails scratching lightly against Kurogane’s scalp. Something sharp twists in his chest at the gesture; the whole situation is entirely too familiar  _(in the best way)_  and Kurogane knows what comes next, anticipation and need and a jumble of other emotions he can’t name surging up, almost enough to drown in as Fai leans forward-

-but even with the hand cupping the back of his neck Kurogane still manages to turn his head to the side, and those lips graze a wet line against his cheek, trailing down across his jawline. The mage sighs, soft breath tickling over-heated skin, and he can’t fight the shudder that rolls down his spine as Fai ghosts kisses down his neck.

“Don’t,” he says and Fai just laughs, the sound velvety and dark; the faintest edge of teeth scrapes against his pulse point as the mage  _( vampire mustn’t forget that the creature in his lap is still a vampire)_ locks his legs about Kurogane’s thighs and holds him in place, and the dull, distant roar of the bonfire, of the celebrating crowd behind them fades to nothing against the sound of that laugh  _(the promise and the heat)_  echoing in his ears. He almost doesn’t hear the “But I  _want_  to,” but when he  _does_  it thuds in his brain and spirals into his blood.

“You don’t understand,” he starts, and anger spikes him clean through, because what he really wants to say is  _you don’t remember_ , because the mage  _doesn’t_ , and there is a difference between knowing something is gone and understanding it- but Kurogane doesn’t get another word out as Fai takes shameless advantage of both his distraction and his open mouth to tip his head back and press soft lips against his own.

The warm wet lick of Fai’s tongue sliding against his own makes him groan and move his hand to curl his fingers about a slender waist; muscle ripples beneath his fingertips as his hand slips under Fai’s tunic, the belt about those rocking hips falling loose as his fingers splay over the warm skin of Fai’s back. It feels  _too good_ , to have the other sprawled out in his lap like this,  _far_  too good to pretend otherwise and he’s drunk too much to stop now, as Fai moans into his mouth and sways forward to chase the taste of mead past his teeth, kissing their bodies together in a rush of heat and friction, so Kurogane doesn’t, just lets the heat rise up  _(tidal, unstoppable, enough to crash over him and leave him reeling)_  and take him over.

It’s not until Fai breaks his mouth free to nip at his pulse  _(skittering and wild, so fast he feels dizzy)_  and the sudden, sweet pain of the bite  _(so good, so damn good, more more more)_  needles his blood that he regains some semblance of control, enough to free his hand from the cottony tunic and sink his fingers into the mess of blonde hair and flowers spilling over Fai’s shoulder; he tugs on a handful, not enough to hurt but enough to mean it, and Fai whines _(low and needy and perfect, the sound jolting straight down into his loins in a blur of aching heat)_  as his head tips back into Kurogane’s palm.

_“I know we were lovers,”_ pants the mage, blue eyes dazed, dark and dreamy- but something in them is sharp and terribly lucid; the fever in Kurogane’s blood turns to ice. “I don’t remember, not all of it- but Syaoran-kun told me what he knew and when I put two and two together-”

The bottle in his left hand makes a noise like  _kkrnchk_  as metal fingers punch through glass, flooding his hand with alcohol and shattered shards. “Stop this,” and he’s cold, so damn cold now  _(snow in his veins, chilling his heart with every aching beat)_ , even with the fire blazing merrily away and the crowds laughing and dancing in the square, all of the heat in his blood gone to twisting, cutting knives. “I won’t be played with-”

“This isn’t Infinity,” gasps Fai, something shadowed and terribly sad darkening his pale features, and his voice is thick with need. “I have no games to play, no lies to speak, no princess-” a break here, voice catching, choking, painful to hear “-to  _betray_. There are holes in my past,  _holes in my heart_ , and gods it scares me how you fill them so easily-! I don’t remember what we were, and maybe I never will. But I… I know what we  _could_  be. I just  _want_ , want so badly, and what I want is  _you_.” 

_(honesty and pain and something like pure and aching desperation- this is what he sees in blue eyes, has seen for so long he can’t stand it; the decision is easy, hesitation absent and results immediate)_

Ice melts, melts in a torrent of heat and need and other, wonderful, terrible things he can’t name  _(love)_ ; his hand slips in blonde silk and flowers are crushed between his fingers as Kurogane pulls Fai forward and crushes their mouths together, catches the sob pressed back between the mage’s lips and draws it out into a low, sweet moan. He lets go _(gives up, gives in, and this is the best and only defeat)_  and lets himself be washed away; glass and mead drip from his fingers as he scrapes his metal hand clean against the bench, not caring for splinters in synthetic skin and wraps his arm about Fai’s waist, forcing the blonde closer still, and if they weren’t in the middle of a harvest festival right now, he knows the shaking hands that claw at his shoulders would scorch the clothes from his back.

The kiss slows, eases, parts- but slowly, lingeringly, and if a few stragglers from the nearby crowd watch with interest as their reconciliation plays out in this embrace, there’s not a single damn he has left to give and he has no use for shame. Fai nips gently at his mouth when they finally break apart; the sound he makes as lust knots in his gut, cords tightly in his groin should in  _no way_ be interpreted as a needy groan  _(even if it is)_  but it’s worth the teasing spark in blue eyes for the small smile Fai gives him, though Kurogane will never understand why his cheeks flush so easily _(and never live it down either)_.

Fai is still sitting in his lap when Syaoran rejoins them near midnight, smeared with soot -“Bonfire jumping! It’s an old fertility ritual in this world, Kurogane-san; you should see the height of the flames!”- and Mokona bouncing excitedly about the place, and though the boy blinks and stutters a bit at the way the blonde has splayed himself sideways across his knees, long legs tossed over to one side and eyes sparkling with mischief, Syaoran says nothing, accepts it as gracefully as he can considering the circumstances. If brown eyes are a touch too knowing  _(and perhaps a bit smug, the brat)_  when they take in the happiness so naked on the mage’s face, and the possessive hand that Kurogane cannot stop from curling about Fai’s waist… well, there are worse things, and Kurogane is man enough to admit a certain vindictive pleasure in the horrified blush that turns Syaoran red as Fai takes the  _(bait)_  opportunity to tease about weddings and the princess and grandchildren.

“I’m  _sure_  you were just thinking of your bride-to-be when you jumped, Syaoran-kun!” and the staggering amount of sexual innuendo that Fai injects into every vowel is truly impressive, “and I’ve no doubt King Touya will be  _thrilled_ when he hears how fertile you no-doubt are, thanks to all that jumping you did!”

Syaoran flushes an indignant scarlet as the mage winks at him.  _“Fai!”_

“Babies,  _babies~!_  Mokona wants to see Sakura’s babies~! Won’t you make some with her next time you go home, Syaoran?”

_“MOKONA!!”_

Syaoran is still spluttering, crimson to the roots of his hair when the white thing leaps skyward with a gleeful ‘Puu~!’ at midnight, and the blue flash of Mokona’s earring is lost in the glowing magic that swirls about the cobblestones. The spectacle draws gasps and cries of amazement from the crowd as brilliant light sweeps their small group into the warp and weft of interdimensional transit; the tumbling, dizzying feeling of breaking down into wisps of scattered energy will never be pleasant, but the thin, strong fingers that clutch at his own in that last, suspended second before total dissolution  _(and he will never not be grateful for the mage finally reaching back to him)_  is something Kurogane welcomes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where we start moving towards the happy ending. There's only so long one can keep up the tension before it snaps. (In a related note, we've got a rating bump next chapter.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

You know where you are as soon as you land ( _Nihon_ ) and the realisation ( _his home_ ) is a blow to your gut that chases the warmth from your belly. Kurogane drops to one knee within seconds of his arrival, head bowed before his princess ( _and the feeling that bites at your heart is not exactly jealously, not nearly so raw, but a little painful still_ ) and as she looks up her eyes are terribly kind when they reach your face. Her hand falls to the dark hair of her warrior in gentle benediction, the silk of her sleeves draping his face; anxiety knots in your stomach as Tomoyo, priestess and princess both, turns your way ( _that smile; too gentle but no pity in violet and you are thankful for that small mercy_ ) and you stagger, wooden planking shaking beneath your feet with the shock of interdimensional transit.  
  
Your eyes rake the horizon, the purpling clouds that draw twilight about the steep stone walls of the castle, the moon just risen; the smell of summer grass and incense smoke floats thick on the breeze and catches in your mouth when you draw in a heavy, dragging breath- and ( _memories claw the inside of your skull_ ) your legs buckle, knees shaking, a sick sudden vertigo rolling in your blood as acid twists thick in your gut and you slip on the soft pink petals that crowd the wooden pathway.  
  
Syaoran is next to arrive even as you stumble; magic swirls about him in cloaking, foggy wisps that whip up clouds of petals and the smell of cherry blossoms ( _the courtyard, the tree, your princess, oh Sakura-_) makes you want to vomit, but you can’t, you don’t, and the sound that trickles through your gritted teeth is that of a wounded animal caught in a trap ( _no trap just your past and that’s enough_ ) and your eyes scrunch shut against the torrent of images pressing against your eyelids, crowding the darkness, and breathing ( _cherry blossoms taste like blood in your mouth_ ) doesn’t help-  
  
You fall, and Kurogane is moving before you can suck in another mouthful of too-sweet air, his left hand curling about your arm to drag you ( _out of the circle, the closing snare of your own magic_ ) upwards and something in your chest catches at the gesture ( _his left arm his left arm his left arm oh gods_) even as steely fingers dig into your flesh with a strength synthetic skin cannot belie.  
  
Tomoyo calls your name as the wards about the courtyard pulse in time with the panicked flare of your own magic and only the bruising force of Kurogane’s hand holds you up as you sink low, cloak puddling on the ground around you in folds of snowy fabric ( _like your coat, the one you left behind in Ceres as he pulled you towards him_ ) and Syaoran runs towards you as memory surges up, thick and visceral ( _like the slash, like the spray, like the blood that arced in steaming droplets and crashed in a splashing burst of scarlet onto the cracked stone_ ) as an open wound, and the last thing you see is red-  
  
( _like his eyes_ )  
  
-and then it is dark, and cool and how much later you don’t know, but when you open your eyes again, Tomoyo is kneeling by your beside ( _the way she did for him, when he lay bandaged and bleeding in this bed_) and you jerk awake with a shuddering gasp.  
  
“It would be cruel of me to welcome you,” her voice is soft, soothing, a gentle stroke of sound in the dim shadows and your skittering heart nearly drowns out her words, “but you are welcome here even so, and I am sorry if Nihon holds dark memories for you.” There is no light save that leaking from the hallway, a warm blur edging the doors, bleeding into the dim shadows that pool in the folds of the princess’s sleeves, soft falls of fabric that rustle against the futon and blankets when she lifts a gentle hand to lay it upon your forehead.  
  
“I don’t know how much you remember of me, Fai-san, but know that while you are in our castle, inside our walls and wards, you are safe,” and when Tomoyo smiles, a glint of light catches on the sweet curve of her lips, “especially with Kurogane guarding your door from all and sundry.”  
  
The thoughts clamouring for attention in the back of your mind ( _where_   _you are, what this young woman is to you, what happened in the courtyard, why your chest hurts so-_ ) still themselves at his name, fall silent in the darkness that flutters behind your eyes and threatens to pull you back into unconsciousness.  
  
 _Kurogane_.  
  
You hear yourself ask for him, hear the rasp in your throat and feel the words stick in your mouth awkwardly ( _some silver-tongued charmer you are_ ) but her soft hand resting on your forehead sends a pulse of cool and soothing energy through you as she speaks and the nervous magic twisting in your veins calms. “I sent him to dinner, Fai-san; he’s been by your side since you fell, growling at everyone who came past- Kurogane was never evenly tempered at the best of times, let alone when he was hungry,” and Tomoyo giggles, hiding her mouth with a draped sleeve, and a smile tugs at your lips in spite of yourself. “It will be a relief to him to hear that you are awake… and a relief to the castle guards also. Perhaps he will stop harassing the other ninja now that he knows you are well.”  
  
Her laughter quiets in the next moment, her hand lifting from your forehead, fingertips brushing briefly through your hair and you blink away the last traces of dizziness as you raise yourself up. When you are reasonably settled, leaning back against heaped pillows, she fixes you with an assessing look. “I am not aware of all the details of your condition, Fai-san, whatever it may be -Kurogane was never one to speak of another behind their back- but I do know that the hot spring that feeds the baths of Shirasagi castle is renowned all throughout Nihon for its healing properties, and that a soak in the mineral waters will only do you good.”  
  
She stands then, raising herself smoothly upright with a flutter of silken sleeves. The light edging through the seams of the doorway warms her eyes, and something understanding ( _and_   _perhaps a bit more knowing than you are truly comfortable with_ ) softens her delicate features. “I would not be surprised if you found him there, Fai-san; in all the years I have known him, Kurogane was always fond of a bath after dinner.”  
  
It only takes a moment for the meaning of her words to sink in; when it does the haste in which you fling back the covers and tumble from the futon makes your knees creak in protest and a scattered thought that perhaps you should have checked to see if you were actually dressed first comes to mind as cool air rushes over your bare legs. The princess giggles as you struggle into the robe lying across the end of the futon, its loose folds wrapped haphazardly about your thin frame, but then you are dashing out the door with no mind for your dignity, calling out a farewell even as her laughter rings out behind you.  
  
Your hurried footsteps patter across polished floorboards like rain, building to a torrent as urgency needles you; you  _have_  to see him, you have to see him  _now_   ( _as much as you needed to see him then_) and maybe it will be easier to face up to what you are, what you have done ( _what you have done to him)_ if you can see the same acceptance in his eyes as you did that night-  
  
( _because it is one thing to know, and another to remember and what little Syaoran told you, he did not tell you this_)  
  
A woman with dark hair and sharp eyes ( _Souma_ ) calls out to you as you pass her by, but you do not know her, or if you do, you do not  _remember_ , and right now, she is not important enough for you to stop; nothing is, not now, not with the weight of memory returned pressing heavy in your mind and you thank what little luck you have left that the halls are mostly empty, the folds of your kimono tangling your legs and making you stumble as you round the corner with some speed, your steps slowing as you finally catch sight of the bathing chamber and your breath leaves your chest in a  _whoosh_  of shocked air.  
  
Your hands shake a little when you open the sliding door to the entry alcove, and something ( _anticipation?_ ) that flutters in your stomach drops away when you find the bathhouse empty, the high-roofed chamber thick with steam and silence; no voice answers your own when you call out a tentative greeting, and the huge bath is still but for the slow seep of water onto slatted floorboards.  
  
There was no guarantee that he would be here, but it is a disappointment all the same.  
  
Tomoyo is right about the baths though ( _as she is right about so many things_ ), and the scalding, mineral-rich waters chase the chill from your bones as you step gingerly into the pool, your breath steaming in white plumes as you slump against the wooden wall; there is no harm in taking a moment to compose yourself, and the slow seep of heat through your aching limbs soothes the static in your brain to little more than a hiss of white noise.  
  
No use over-thinking it; if there is anything that this has taught you, it’s that the past is behind you and the future unknowable- better then to take things as they come.  
  
 _(and maybe he would be pleased you’d finally accepted that lesson for the truth it was when he first spoke it_ )  
  
When you leave the bath, squeezing the water from your hair and shaking loose limbs, you find your clothes gone from the crumpled pile you left them in, and a kimono folded and waiting upon a shelf in the dressing alcove when reaching for a towel; the notion that  _everyone in this castle is a ninja, even the servants_  flashes through your thoughts and brings a smile to your mouth even as you drape yourself in cool cloth, and if your hands are shaking as you wind the obi around your waist and cinch it tight, fingers clumsy on the knot at the small of your back, you don’t stop to consider it.  
  
The way back to your room is unfamiliar, so you wander aimlessly, Shirasagi castle quiet this time of night and your footsteps echoing as you walk onwards. A draft stirs your hair as you pass an alcove, and on the swell of intuition it wakes in you you follow the breeze, the air sweet and tasting of cherry blossoms and night-blooming flowers; you travel over a wooden walkway by a still lake, and nostalgia stirs somewhere at the back of your thoughts as you come to a courtyard and push open the closed gates-  
  
And it is instinct that moves your hand when a blur of white springs towards you with a cry of “Fai!  _Fai!_  You’re awake~! Mokona was worried, so worried!”  and Mokona lands soft in your palm, tears beading on white fur, your heart squeezing in your chest as the small creature curls into the curve of your hand; you manage a smile even as you bring your other hand up to stroke soft ears, and if it is weak and not so bright, you don’t try to hide behind it.  
  
Your reassurances are quiet and genuine, but even as you speak Mokona clings to your sleeve with tiny paws all the same, and it is some time before she settles and allows herself to be shuffled onto your shoulder as you walk; you are still trying to soothe the small, innocent creature you have grown to love over the years when you move further into the courtyard, enough to catch sight of the tree that reaches gracefully towards the sky-  
  
( _Sakura, the petals, the girl, the tree split down the middle as what you thought you knew was torn asunder as the two halves of one soul fought each other; tortured wood screams and flowers rain down in a torrent as inky magic wraps you in its coils, and through it all the sound of once-Syaoran, the clone, the boy with your eye, the sound of his heart breaking-_)  
  
You have to stop, and something that would’ve once been a sob catches in your throat.  
  
The sacred tree is still split, still torn, the trunk forever split in twain- but where once the wound wept sap and dark, cloying magic now grows new life; woody offshoots strive upwards from scarred timber, blooming into a spray of branches and a profusion of flowers far above you, enough to layer the floorboards by its roots thick with petals, stirring like powdered snow in the breeze that whirls through the courtyard.  
  
Syaoran is there, at the foot of the tree; one palm rests flat against ancient bark, and if he has wept there is no shame on his face. He turns as you draw closer, passing under the cool shadows of the canopy above you, and the nod he gives in greeting as his fingers trail away from the trunk stops whatever you could say before it leaves your mouth.  
  
“I’m glad you’re awake. We were worried, all of us were.” His gaze flicks upwards, over your face and away. “Especially Kurogane-san.”  
  
Silence falls after his words, that curious stillness that steeps this place spread out between you, and when he looks back your way again, his eyes are searching for something in your own and you have to wonder if he finds what he seeks in the moonlight that falls across the courtyard in pale, glowing drifts.  
  
“I don’t know all of what passed between you here in Nihon,” says Syaoran eventually, his young face drawn and sombre. “I never asked. But I know it was enough to make you smile when you traded your magic for his arm, enough to make you happy in a way you hadn’t been in all the time we had known you.”  
  
His eyes are serious and dark ( _your princess was not the only one your smiles wounded, all of them bled in some way from the lies you told and the secrets you kept_ ) and you accept the guilt for what it is ( _breathe it in and let it go_ ) as Mokona leaps from your shoulder and into Syaoran’s waiting arms, earring jangling as the small creature crawls into the folds of his robe to hide her face.  
  
“It’s not my place to tell you what you were to each other, not really,” continues Syaoran, and shakes his head. “I said what I did before because you asked- and because I think you  _knew_ , somehow, even with your memories gone. Because even if the memory is gone, it doesn’t mean the feeling is,” and his voice turns soft and somehow knowing, warming his gaze where it rests on your face. “ _We_  know all about that after all.”  
  
Your head hurts at the implications of that; the boy, his clone, his father and the tangled mess that was ( _the girl you loved like a daughter_ ) Sakura all one sweetly jumbled confusion of feelings you can’t quite sort out even now- but you cared for them all, loved them all, every “Syaoran” you ever knew wise beyond his years, and you have no reason to doubt him now.  
  
“Kurogane-san left to speak with the empress when last I saw him,” and Syaoran turns his face upwards towards the tree, the trees, the two trunks twining together from a single core. Petals, falling slow, brush his cheek, pool softly in his hair and fleck his kimono with droplets of pink. “That was a little while ago now. I think he’s looking for you as well, Fai-san.”  
  
“Fai should go,” says Mokona sleepily, startling you both; her voice is muffled by folds of cloth but carries well enough in the still night air. “Go and find Kuro-pu. Mokona will stay here with Syaoran and count the blossoms. Things will be better in the morning. Mokona knows they will because Mokona knows  _everything_ …” her voice trails away into a sleepy mumble and Syaoran smiles, the expression fond, bringing up a hand to stroke silky ears.  
  
“Go on,” he says. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Fai.”  
  
You don’t argue, but squeeze his shoulder in passing, and the path you take towards the castle proper seems more familiar beneath your feet, your steps more confident as you pass rooms and halls by and come to a stop before the door you know belongs to the room you woke in; it opens easily, oiled wood gliding open at the merest touch, and you are distracted enough by your own thoughts that you don’t even realise who, exactly, is standing before you until you’ve taken three steps onto wooden floorboards. Your tabi rasp softly across the floor, the sound a distraction, and when you look up the light that spills through the open door cuts a swathe of brightness across the walls and draperies that fall from the ceiling to frame the futon- and Kurogane is there.  
  
You open your mouth to say something, what you don’t know, but nothing comes out, and for a little while all you do is stare at each other, your breath coming fast even as his leaves him in something like a sigh. “I wouldn’t have left,” says Kurogane, and the weight of his words thrills you, “but Tomoyo insisted, and then the empress wanted to talk to me. You were gone when I came back. So I waited.”  
  
He turns away from you a little to reach into his sleeve; the sound of a match striking is still quiet, nowhere near loud enough to drown the thudding of your heart, and a small spark of brightness catches your line of sight and draws your gaze up to red eyes darkened to near-black by the shadows that flow down the walls.  
  
“This is my room,” he says then, quiet, pressing the lit match to the lantern-wick. “If you want, I could ask for another to be made up for you.” A warm glow blooms outwards from the paper screens of the small lantern cupped in those big hands, washing over his face and across those ( _once and again_ ) familiar features as oil-soaked cotton catches alight with a gentle  _whoomph_. He shakes out the match and sets the lantern down on the floor; his silhouette shifts and flows across the wall as he walks towards you, and something shivers down your spine when his gaze reaches your face. “Or you could sleep here tonight.”  
  
There is nothing expectant in his voice, just patience- but there  _is_  a hunger, banked and hidden in that gaze, in the tense line of his shoulders, and you know that he would wait for however long you would ask for in the same moment you decide you’ve both waited long enough. Your skin feels tight, taut, stretched thin and sore with need; your breath catches in your throat and shudders between your teeth as a sigh works itself free from the empty ache in your chest, and between the dull roar that rings in your ears and the surge of his heartbeat you barely hear yourself whisper  _I want to stay here_.  
  
 _(because you do, you do, oh_, _you want so much_)  
  
He swallows, takes a few steps towards you, the edge of his sleeve brushing against your arm as he reaches out to slide the door closed; something hot and heavy comes to rest low in your belly, like a stone ( _edges worn smooth by time and desire and his constant presence_ ) and the steady weight of it quickens your breath as he turns to back to you, the flickering light melting shadows across the dim room.  
  
“Good,” says Kurogane, and fire twists beneath your skin at the sound of his voice. “ _Good._ ”  
  
And he reaches out to curl his fingers under the sash that binds your waist, pulls you closer, draws you away from the door; the motion forces you to take tiny, stumbling steps across the polished floorboards as the kimono pulls tight about your legs, restricting and uncomfortable- but the heat of his hand bleeds through layers of cloth as a rough palm smoothes over your belly, catching on silk, and your chest heaves as that hand moves upwards, everything else forgotten as your skin  _burns_  beneath the tracery of his fingertips, his fingers slipping along the part of your robe and pulling it open.  
  
You whisper his name, feel it melt on your tongue ( _dark and sweet and_   _yours  to speak_) and Kurogane shudders; his mechanical arm ( _cool to the touch beneath synthetic skin but no less welcome_ ) snakes about your waist to drag you close, to hold your body against his own, your skin tingling beneath cool silk at the searing contact. His hands are shaking, small tremors that you can barely feel as you sway forward into his warmth, and somehow you know ( _remember_ ) that what makes him tense isn’t nerves but  _anticipation_ ; the press of hard muscle and the heady scent of the blood pulsing beneath his skin makes you dizzy as you lay your lips against his throat ( _could just bite, could just taste, could just let that liquid red flood your mouth and drown your senses_ ) and the need that flickers like flame in your belly makes it hard to only scrape the edge of your teeth against the tendons that strain in his neck ( _so easy to let them sink into salty skin and warm, yielding flesh_ ) and nothing more.  
  
But Kurogane has other ideas, and the hand that tugs your kimono loose about your shoulders ( _air cool on your back, goosebumps rippling down your spine_ ) slides around and across your back to thread his fingers into your hair; his grip is insistent but not painful as he cups the base of your neck and guides you firmly forward. You stumble up on tiptoes to lessen the height difference, mouth parting against his throat in a wet, open kiss, even as he speaks and silk pools loosely about your waist.  
  
“I  _want_  this,” he says, low voice vibrating against your lips, denying your protests before you make them, “and you need it.”  
  
( _he’s not just talking about the blood_ )  
  
His fingers scrunch into your hair, scraping blunt fingernails against your scalp; his pulse throbs against your lips, a steady beat that rolls like hunger in your belly. An eager mewl escapes you before you can swallow it back at the urgency that edges his words ( _barely restrained and humming like the tension between the two of you_ ) and you press your hands flat against his chest ( _his heart thudding beneath your palms, faster and faster with every passing moment_ ) even as his other hand makes itself busy, falling to the knot at the small of your back; metal fingers tug on the silken obi that holds your clothes to your hips, pulling it loose with a soft, slow rasp of unravelling fabric that nearly makes your knees buckle.  
  
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, and the whispering sound of the sash slipping through his fingers to puddle on the floor in a heap of silk is nearly lost to the roaring in your ears.  
  
And before you can answer him, he’s moving, pushing you back, steering you towards the bed and your kimono is slipping, slipping, falling from your hips as you stumble with each step- but you can’t feel awkward, not even a little, because  _oh_ , that’s his hand on your hip, scrunching into fabric and pulling it free, and those are his fingers cradling the back of your head, the last few inches of your clothing caught between you because he won’t give enough space for it to come loose and pool on the ground.  
  
“No one is coming in to stop us,” and yes, that’s  _hunger_  in his voice now, rumbling and heavy in his chest ( _and_   _your_ _nerves stretch taut at the need in that sound_ ), the edge of your heel brushing against the futon as you step backwards, the thick mattress spongy and soft beneath your foot, “and I told the white thing that if that damn earring glows, it’s to leave  _without us_ ,” this a growl against your lips as he turns your head ( _an almost kiss_ ) and in the dim light of the lantern his eyes are bloody and deep.  
  
 _No more interruptions_ , you think, or maybe it was a murmur against his mouth, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because he grins ( _and you can almost taste the blood in it, almost taste that fierce, possessive joy_ ) and quite suddenly you surge forward ( _almost_   _isn’t enough_ ), and the taste of copper and salt glitters on your tongue as you crush your mouth to his, catching his bottom lip between your teeth and making him bleed as the kiss turns deep and devouring.  
  
( _so good, not enough, more_   _more more_ )  
  
You don’t even notice your clothing slipping that final inch, but Kurogane does, hand sliding from your hair to stroke down your spine and his fingertips skitter lines of heat over bare skin; he groans and you swallow the sound, lick the blood from his mouth even as your kimono pools in soft folds about your feet, and his fingers dig bruises into your hips as your tongue slides flat and hot across the curve of his jaw and down to his jumping pulse, your hands scrunching into the dark fabric of his robe-  
  
( _prey, your prey and yours alone; hero, lover, savior, Kuro-sama-_)  
  
-and the  _sound_  he makes as your teeth split taut skin ( _red on your teeth, red on your tongue, iron and salt and red red red_ ) hits you in the chest like a blow, like a fist sinking into your gut, dizzying and heavy and  _so damn good_ , and you are drunk on the sensation of his knees slowly buckling, body swaying forward into your grip to press against you in a long line of heat and muscle; fabric tears in your hands, the sound of ripping silk a whining rasp against your nerves, and one hand smoothes flat against his chest ( _so hot_ ) as the other snags the sash about his waist with nails like knives and shreds cloth into ribbons.  
  
His head drops heavily to your shoulder; you can feel his eyelashes moving against bare skin as he blinks slowly, in time with every swallow, but that’s not really important ( _not_   _with his blood in your mouth_ ) and you only realise he’s trying to speak when his breath fogs hot against the slope of your neck and makes you shiver. “ _Bed_ ,” he groans thickly, and it is a plea and a demand all at once, “bed,  _now_ , just-” and that is the best suggestion you have ever heard ( _still the best, no matter how many times you hear it_ ), so before he can catch his breath you turn, twist, and the both of you fall onto the futon with your mouth still pressed to the slick wound, his body pinned beneath you.  
  
His breath explodes out of his chest as both of you hit the mattress, shocked into stillness by the sudden impact, but he isn’t still for long as you sink your teeth in again ( _you can never have enough of this_ ) and sparks crackle down your nerves as he grinds his hips upwards ( _need and heat alike scorch you from the inside out_ ), the folds of his torn kimono fanning out over the futon and bunching beneath him; a breathless kind of snarl tears from his throat and rumbles against your lips as you rock into the motion ( _the sweet, burning friction)_  and metal fingers curl about your hip for leverage when your hand slips free of his torn robes to thump heavily onto the futon.  
  
Something that tastes like surprise ( _and desire and violent delight_ ) fizzes into the blood that washes over your tongue, paints your teeth in glorious red; you moan ( _can’t help it_ ), a trickle slips free from where your lips are sealed to his throat, and when you break away to lap it up ( _the rasp of your tongue over wet and bloodied skin curls tight and aching in your gut_ ) he gasps a protest. “More,” he says, voice slurred about the edges, “you need more than that,” and those burning eyes smoulder low and dark as he struggles to raise himself up, torn clothing slipping down broad shoulders and pooling about his elbows. Blood slips down his neck in a slow, lazy trickle that makes hunger twist in your belly ( _you can never get enough_ ) but it’s not just  _blood_  you want now, and your eyes catch on the play of lantern light across his collarbones, the planes of his chest; heat sinks into your bones, makes your arms shake, and when you reach for him, it’s not to bite.  
  
You need to touch him,  _need it_ , more than breath, more than blood; your hand strokes flat and hot across the slope of his stomach, muscle rippling beneath your palm as the motion sweeps upwards. Your fingers splay over his chest, startlingly pale over tanned skin; he huffs a breath, tips his head back and wetness smears beneath your fingertips, staining them red as they trace up the line of his throat, and a shudder takes him as you shift to settle your frame between his legs, the heavy muscles of his thighs pressing hot on bare skin as he hooks a leg about your hip.  
  
Kurogane hisses, your name a strangled slur between his teeth as you lower your head to bloody trickles; goosebumps wash over his skin beneath the lick of your tongue, the scrape of your teeth- and tension coils in his arms, the slope of his shoulders as he fists one hand into the futon, as though to keep it from clutching at your back. The other hand rises, fingertips trailing hot over your stomach and dragging across your chest; he chuckles when his thumb grazes your nipple, making you jump at the swift stab of sensation that curls in your gut.  
  
“Hah… you always were a tease,” he says, and there is something breathless in the tone of his voice; you lift your head, lick your lips ( _blood, hot, good_ ), and once you meet his gaze ( _red and black and burning in the shadows of lantern light_ ) you cannot look away. His hand slides higher, fingers curling about your shoulder, pressing tight against your skin. “Let me up,” he says suddenly, shifting beneath you, “I need to- to get-”  
  
And,  _oh_ , but you know what he’s after and before the thought can sink in your arm is already moving, reaching out behind you, fingers flicking; magic curls free of your fingertips and somewhere behind you there is the scrape of wood as drawers rattle, a brief rush of wind, and then cool glass smacks into your palm, liquid contents of the bottle sloshing about with an oily  _gloop_.  
  
“Ah,” says Kurogane. “I forgot you could do that.”  
  
The bottle is smooth, rounded, fitting easily into the curve of your hand, but he takes it from you all the same, and there is nothing like hesitation in his eyes ( _he is no stranger to your body after all_ ) as he loosens the stopper with his thumb and manages to free one arm from the tangled mess of his sleeve to spill its contents across his palm, and his hand is wet and rough as it glides down across your stomach, fingers hot beneath the cool slick of oil where they dip lower and-  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
Your breath shudders out of you, back arching at the touch, the  _stroke_  ( _wicked fingers, wicked man, red eyes on your face and teeth bare as he grins_) and you cannot stop the slow, sweet moan that he squeezes out of you with a deft twist of his wrist. Your pulse thunders in your veins, rumbles in your ears; your head drops to rest against the crook of his neck and the taste of his blood is thick on your tongue as any resistance you might have had melts away and leaves you wanting.  
  
( _him, his blood, the hot press of your bodies together- you want all of it_ )  
  
There is an ache, low and fierce in your belly when he stops, draws his hand away with one final, dragging curl of his fingers; before you can think to ask why he takes your hand and threads oil-slick fingers through your own, smearing a gloss of heat and wet across your palm. “When you’re like this,” and his head tips to the side, exposing the blood that streaks his neck, “it’s better if you top.” Something dark and heady rises in his eyes, then; melts soft in the shadows of lantern light and warmth ( _affection and familiarity and possessiveness, all these things that you have missed in this self-inflicted separation_ ) roughens his voice. “It’s been too long. I don’t want to play games tonight.”  
  
And the only thing you have ever liked better than him above you was him  _beneath_  you, so when he lays back, the long line of his throat bare and vulnerable to your ( _lips, teeth, tongue_ ) gaze, you follow him down, and it isn’t a game anymore ( _never was_ ) when slippery fingers push into heat.  
  
You should go slow, you  _should_ , but he is anything but passive and the weight of his hand trailing down your back makes it hard to  _breathe_  let alone think or act with any measure of control- and even if  _you_  have forgotten what it is to touch him like this ( _those memories a price paid just like the others_ ) your hands have not, and it is not long at all before he snags your wrist with impatient fingers and fixes you with a look that is no less demanding for all that it is heavy-lidded. “ _Now_ , mage,” he growls and you brace yourself against the futon, knot the fingers of one hand in the softness of the sheets; his back arches as your other hand catches in the bend of his knee, and against your wet palm his skin is burning hot- but it is  _nothing_  to how he feels as you slide inside in a rush of heat.  
  
A sound hooks in your throat, something thick and wanting, and though you hold it back as best you can it strains through your gritted teeth as your hips snap, forcing your bodies ( _closer closer need to be closer than this_ ) together and making him groan; he curses, incoherent, barely audible, as you rock back and forward again, the next thrust seating you fully in tight, dragging heat. Need simmers in your blood, a dizzying kind of pressure in your chest, low in your belly; your toes curl into the sheets, desperate for purchase as you surge forward and the hand that smoothes down and across your back clutches at the back of your thigh.  
  
“Harder,” says Kurogane, “you can’t break me,” and something like amusement ( _like heat like a promise_ ) bleeds into his voice. His fingers cut bruises into your thighs, pull you closer ( _deeper_ ) and on the next thrust his head tips back against the futon. “You’ve tried, before-“ his breath hitches, “-and you never could.” It’s a challenge, a  _dare_ , and something in you ( _the vampire_ ) makes you dip your head to scrape your teeth over the curve of his shoulder to hear him gasp when they break the skin and you do not ( _cannot_ ) hold back after that.  
  
There is no rhythm to the roll of your hips now, just heat; you spear forward with all the strength you can bring to bear and he crushes a handful of torn silk from his ripped robes between metal fingers as you force him back across the futon, inch by inch, with every aching thrust. Sweat slicks your chest, your arms, drips down across your skin and onto his to make the space between you tight and slippery; he drags your hand up from his knee to slide across his stomach as you bite kisses across the line of his neck, and all that’s left of you is hunger as lantern light blurs like droplets of gold against the fringe of your eyelashes and your teeth sink into taut flesh in the same moment you curl your fingers about the hardness pressing into your belly.  
  
You squeeze, stroke him slow and merciless; blood washes across your tongue ( _hotgoodmore_ ) and paints your teeth with red. He bucks beneath you, moans desperately against the slope of your shoulder, and if you have ever felt more  _alive_  than this you cannot remember, and you do not think you want to- for now this ( _he_ ) is enough.  
  
Release catches you unawares in the next moment, speeds your heart and thunders through your blood; your eyes slam shut and your hips jerk a final, frantic thrust deeper ( _deep as you can_ ) as pleasure rolls heavy in your belly and bleeds out in a surge of heat that leaves you breathless. Your teeth tighten on his throat, drawing one last mouthful from him as urgency gives way to gasping satisfaction; he groans as the pull of your hand quickens and follows you over the edge in a sudden slick of warmth across your fingers, his breath panting fast and hot against the sweat-damp skin of your neck as he turns his face into the crook of your shoulder.  
  
( _Oh, Kuro-sama…_ )  
  
You have no strength to move, all your reserves spent; his hand slides up the curve of your spine to rest heavy between your shoulder-blades and something like a sigh stirs your hair as you lap at his bloodied throat, the slow swipe of your tongue chasing droplets of red from torn skin and if you feel guilt it is only fleeting as he shudders, your weight sinking down atop him, pressing him into the yielding mattress.  
  
“You’re gonna have to get up,” he says, after a while; his voice is barely a drowsy murmur against your neck. Your back is cold but for the press of his hand and a line of heat where one leg is thrown over your hip, but it is so _warm_ where your bodies are pressed together and you do not want to move so you make a noise of protest. “ _Mage_ ,” he says, warningly, something like irritation warming his voice- but his hand strokes down your spine all the same.  
  
When you finally slide free of him it is only to roll onto your back beside him, and for a few moments all you can do is blink as tiredness blurs the edge of your vision. He sits up, slow, and the motion catches your eye as lantern-light flows across his scarred back, and suddenly it isn’t  _tiredness_  anymore, something else entirely and your breath stutters in your throat as a memory unfolds before your eyes-  
  
( _you press your cheek against the slope of his good shoulder, your hands fluttering over his wounds -so many, so many, oh, Kuro-sama- and the rasp of cloth against bandages as your sleeves drape across his back makes you shiver as he draws you close with a gentle tug on your wrist; the folds of your furisode ride high across your trembling thighs as you sink down into his lap, your good eye falling closed with a sigh, heat washing through you as your bodies finally join_; _you both moan as your fingers clutch bruisingly tight at his hips for balance, pressing as close as you can, the only hand he has left a steadying pressure at the base of your spine that burns hot through layers of silk and Nihon’s air whistles cool and sweet down your throat as together the two of you sway and surge towards release, towards something like forgiveness-_)  
  
-and you barely hear him call your name as relief, sharp and poignant, tightens your chest ( _it’s not gone, it’s not gone, it’s still there, just barely out of reach_) and when his hand cups your face, wonderfully rough against your cheek, you don’t even bother to hide the tears that well up as you press your mouth to the curve of his palm, his name a sigh against warm skin.  
  
 _I remember_ , you say, and this is true; your lips catch against callus as you whisper the words you barely have the breath to speak,  _Kuro-sama, I remember_   _you_ , and before you can say anything else his fingers curl about your chin and drag you close, and the slow, soft press of his mouth against your own ( _gentle, insistent and full of everything he cannot say_ ) threatens to chase everything but the memory you’ve just regained into sweet nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, I have always felt like this is where the main storyline ends; we've still got the wrap-up to come, but here is where Kurogane and Fai find some measure of peace.


	8. Chapter 8

The room is hot when he opens the door silently, which Syaoran considers mildly impressive since it is winter here in the world of the Dimension Witch and the snow slumped in heavy white drifts across the garden does nothing for keeping warmth inside the wooden walls of the shop- but he is  _not_  going to think about  _how_  it got that warm, because there are some things he doesn’t particularly want to know. The tatami mats are still cool beneath his feet when he steps inside, though, and briefly he considers the wisdom of walking about Watanuki’s home barefooted ( _he has more than a passing familiarity with the pranks Maru and Moro will play on their guests when their master isn’t looking_ ) but Fai makes a soft noise in his sleep and his mind snaps back to the task at hand.  
  
 _Wake them for breakfast, would you Syaoran_ , he mouths silently to himself, Watanuki’s voice playing out in his head as he steps gingerly across the matting,  _but do it quietly please. I’ve other guests staying with me at the moment and though the traditional morning routine of watching Kurogane chase the Mokonas about is certainly entertaining, I’d rather not deal with the accompanying chaos it usually causes with a houseful of supernatural entities visiting._  The passage of time has done nothing for his other self’s snooty tendencies; even in his existence as shop owner and the associated humility that comes with the role of wish-granter has done little to temper Watanuki’s need to boss others about, usually with ladle in hand.  
  
Kurogane doesn’t wake when he pads softly past the head of the futon, nor when he opens the shoji that lead out to the verandah with a muted rattle- but the pale sunlight that slices through the gap and onto the ninja’s sleeping face will do the trick soon enough. He’s learnt the hard way that if Kurogane is still asleep when he enters a room, trying to wake him by shaking his shoulder or calling his name will not end well; Syaoran has never actually been hurt by being swiftly and firmly pinned to a wall with a blade levelled at his throat by a irate and suddenly awake ninja -the older man always recognising him within a second or two and dropping him to the floor once he has- but the experience is never pleasant.  
  
Stepping gingerly over the rumpled sleeve of an incredibly detailed and no doubt ridiculously expensive silk kimono he saw Fai wearing last night, the edge of Syaoran’s left heel brushes slightly on the slippery fabric, making him stumble. He catches himself before he falls forward and onto the futon where his two companions are tangled together ( _and mostly covered by the blankets, thank the gods; he has no wish to see that again_) but only just, and the faint sound of a foot thumping gently against the floor near his dark head is enough to make Kurogane stir, his brow creasing in irritation.  
  
He forgets how to breathe for a moment, waiting for those red eyes to open and spear him to the wall with a look- but the dark-haired man sleeps on, merely turning his face away from the noise and towards the mess of blonde hair tucked beneath his chin. Fai is barely visible beneath the bedspread, one hand curled against a broad shoulder, cheek pressed against Kurogane’s chest, but the small ( _honest_ ) smile creasing the mage’s mouth speaks volumes about his happiness, even in sleep. The sight makes Syaoran smile too; they’ve all paid many things to earn their peace, and when he thinks about what coin the two of them have spent ( _blood and pain and flesh not being the least of it_ ) against the cost of his journey, it makes him happy to see his friends ( _family, corrects a voice suspiciously like Fai’s own when he’s at the meowing stage of drunkenness, we’re your family, Syaoran-kun~!_) like this.  
  
Not that he’d ever actually say that to their faces, of course.  
  
He knows they know, and no-one has to talk about it; he’s more open than the stoic ninja, but unlike the mage and his absent princess ( _and the thought of Sakura is a sweet ache in his chest that leaves him hoping, as always, that Clow will be the next place they’ll visit_ ) neither he nor Kurogane feel the need to sit down over a cup of tea and have a chat about their feelings. Which is good, because he still remembers the look on the older man’s face when he realised that Syaoran had intervened with his relationship with the mage a few worlds back, and he has no wish to find himself staring down the business end of Ginryuu.  
  
Again.  
  
Shaking his head ( _the light streaming through the open doorway is growing brighter by the minute and it is only a matter of time before the two of them wake, and being caught in their bedroom at this hour of the morning is not on his to-do list for the day_ ) Syaoran takes a few hesitant steps towards the door, dodging stray articles of clothing as he goes, drawing level with the still figure of Kurogane sprawled out over the futon- and swallows down an undignified squawk as a dark hand snakes out impossibly fast from beneath the covers to close about his ankle with a steely grip.  
  
He wobbles, flails his arms about in a frantic attempt to not fall over and feels dread pool in his stomach as Kurogane lazily opens one eye. Evidently, the ninja was not as asleep as he’d thought, and is somewhat annoyed at being woken. “I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t just throw the pork-bun in here,” rumbles Kurogane, voice low and rough from sleep, “and that breeze is kind of nice,” his dark head jerks across the pillow to indicate the balcony and the breath of snow swirling through the open door, “but next time tell the other brat if he wants us up early he can damn well knock on the door himself.”  
  
Strong fingers unhook from his leg and Syaoran nods, somewhat abashed and feeling just a little awkward as Kurogane yawns and stretches and the covers slip lower- but the ninja either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care ( _the latter is more likely; his few experiences with shared bathing and his travelling companions had taught him that neither of the men actually have any shame, and that a certain portion of their travelling funds should be set aside to cover the costs of damages to the surroundings when Fai inevitably teases and Kurogane inevitably chases_ ) and rolls over, turning away from Syaoran and leaving the scarred canvas of his broad back bare. Fai makes a soft sound, a vague protest of some kind, as he is turned onto his side- but Kurogane pulls him close and slings a heavily-muscled arm about his waist, and the mage falls silent once more.  
  
“We’re not getting up yet. Save me some grilled fish and rice before that archer eats it all,” mumbles Kurogane, voice low and sleepy; there is something like dismissal in his tone, so Syaoran nods silently to himself and steps back towards the door before dismissal gives way to irritation- but there was also something like affection colouring that deep rumble and Syaoran can’t stop the small, smiling quirk that twists his mouth as he leaves the room.  
  
Watanuki does not look particularly surprised that he returns unaccompanied, and flaps an idle hand when Syaoran requests a small portion of rice and fish be put aside for the still-sleeping warrior; apparently he knows his guests well enough by now to have accounted for that possibility, and having put aside their breakfasts some time earlier, the slender young man settles himself down in a graceful flutter of long limbs as he returns from the kitchen.  
  
Doumeki, eating silently at the head of the long table ( _populated with spirits and ghosts and all manner of supernatural beings that Syaoran himself has no wish to draw the attention of and therefore ignores as politely as possible, though the young fox kit twitching his tail at the other end of the table catches his eye more than once_ ) watches the shop-keeper fold himself into his seat, taking a moment to stretch out a long arm and snatch a slice of pickled daikon from Watanuki’s plate with his chopsticks, and Syaoran just shakes his head as a short, noisy kerfuffle ensues; if Fai and Kurogane can sleep through  _that_  they won’t be getting up any time soon.  
  
Breakfast draws to a close without either of them appearing; he helps Watanuki clear the dishes and the fox kit runs between their long legs as he dashes back and forth from the dining room and kitchen, carrying cups and bowls and other small items in an attempt to be helpful. They wash in harmony, Syaoran unable to stop himself from laughing at the good-natured grumbling of his parallel existence; it isn’t until a lull in conversation while they are drying glasses that the questions he has been turning over in his mind for some time now come spilling out.  
  
Watanuki does not flinch when Syaoran speaks, does not even pause in the act of polishing glass, and his eyes are distant ( _haunted_ ) as he looks out from the kitchen. “If I am to explain this to you, Syaoran, then I think I need a drink first.”  
  
It is a good hour later, and Watanuki is sprawled on silken cushions in an elegant tangle of long limbs, watching from the porch as the young fox kit builds snowmen in the garden with Doumeki. He takes a sip of heated sake as Syaoran settles down on the wooden planks beside him, his breath puffing in moist clouds as he sighs. “Of all the people to ask that question, I had assumed it would have been Kurogane-san- but then I suppose a man like him is not one to dwell on the past, but to push on ever forward, and Fai-san himself is not even aware that he could ask…”  
  
The garden is covered with snow, heavy with thick slumped piles, and the fox kit -clad in kimono, cheerful scarf and a woollen coat- trips and is nearly lost in a freezing drift- but Doumeki snatches him up by the back of his collar and pulls him to safety. Watanuki smiles, a thin twitch of lips that looks somehow mournful. “You have to understand, Syaoran, that though I am the shop-keeper now and have a greater understanding of how wishes work, I am not the authority on them. I don’t think anyone ever could be.” His words are quiet, spoken to the rim of his sake cup as warm steams swirls about his face. “But I do know there was a… difference in how Fai-san paid for his wish, a difference in his price than that of Sakura-chan’s.”  
  
“The feathers,” breathes Syaoran.  
  
“Yes,” says Watanuki, and the word is a sigh. “Sakura-chan’s memories were taken from her soul, extracted and crystallised in physical form and so lost, only to be regained once her feathers were returned to her. But Fai-san… his memories were not taken, not truly- just  _sealed_. The price he paid for another’s life was to have all of the happiness that person had given him, all of his thoughts and feelings and his memories of that person locked away in the recesses of his mind; his price was as much the pain of losing those memories and knowing he was missing something as much as the act of losing them itself.”  
  
The shine of Watanuki’s glasses is nearly enough to blank them, nearly enough to hide the terrible acceptance in his eyes- but not quite. “For one with a past such as his, such a price is no doubt the highest cost.”  
  
A high-pitched squeal of laughter from the fox kit -running across the garden and pelting snowballs in the direction of Doumeki, aided in his pursuit by the Mokonas, both small bundles of fur bouncing into the yard from the shadows of the verandah- cuts into the still air that has settled over the porch, and Syaoran blinks. Fai’s past… was not something he liked to think about, not really; having the mage’s memories shoved into his mind like twisting shards of poisoned ice ( _all that pain, all that suffering and terrible, terrible loneliness_ ) by the King of Ceres had ( _been like knives, like tearing, curling agony and toxic desperation; enough to make him vomit, enough to make the shock settle in his bones as he stared down the trembling magician and something like horror had unfurled in his chest at the realisation that every smile had been a perfect lie_ ) not been pleasant, and even knowing the cause behind the man’s actions had not made the nightmares that followed any easier to bear.  
  
Laying down his shallow cup, Watanuki takes up his pipe, striking a match as he holds the end between his teeth. The soft, sweet scent of tobacco and incense swirls in curling tendrils about Syaoran as the shop-owner breathes out a thin stream of smoke, spiralling skywards in silken plumes. “He may never remember. Not really, no matter how Kurogane-san struggles to bring those memories back. But the body never forgets, Syaoran. Even when the mind does.  _Especially_  when the mind does.” Sly eyes slide sideways to Syaoran’s face, in a gesture that reminded him of Yuuko herself, far more than Watanuki would ever know. “You should not worry for them, not when you have your own troubles… and I do not think they would thank you for being involved in their affairs.”  
  
Syaoran flushes; something like heat snakes up his neck at Watanuki’s amusement, and he can’t stop the way his voice cracks when he splutters a denial. Watanuki just chuckles, and once again, Syaoran is struck by the difference between them. The other man may have begun his existence as a fragment of Syaoran’s soul ( _like his father, like his clone_ ) but time and age had given him a level of maturity that Syaoran himself has yet to reach.  
  
 _Or something like that_ , he corrects himself as Doumeki creeps towards the edge of the balcony in a manner that would make Kurogane proud were the ninja to see it and uses the opportunity that Watanuki’s distraction provides to pin the slender man to the balcony -his pipe spinning onto the porch with a clatter- and shove a handful of snow down the back of the shop-owner’s kimono. The shriek that bursts from the shop-owner’s lips is truly unearthly, and the fox kit and the Mokonas yelp and dive for cover as Watanuki shouts with incoherent, spluttering rage; there is no change in the archer’s impassive expression as Watanuki dashes after him, dignity forgotten and limbs flailing about, the long sleeves of his kimono flapping as he dives into the garden-  
  
-and before long it is a full-on snowy melee, Maru and Moro appearing from the kitchen to take their master’s side with giggling malice, Doumeki and the fox kit splitting into a tag-team behind a heaped pile of snow and the Mokonas forming their own pair, each bundle of fuzzy fur firing a high-speed barrage of snowballs from their gaping mouths as they bounce across the yard. Syaoran laughs, he cannot help it- and it feels like the first honest laughter in months, the dam finally breaking as the tense knot behind his breastbone melts away. The commotion ( _the laughter, the snow, the weak, watery sunlight that shatters in spangled, frosty glimmers across the yard_ ) is finally enough to wake his companions, and Fai barrels out of a hastily opened door with an excited whoop, blonde hair flying about his shoulders in soft waves, lanky frame wrapped in a mismatched collection of clothes with Kurogane’s cloak draped heavily about his shoulders and plummets headfirst into the chaos; the mage is followed by the ninja, only half-dressed, who roars something about being woken too soon- and is silenced with a mouthful of packed ice.  
  
( _Fai has always had deadly aim_)  
  
The fighting stops in the sudden shocked hush; the yard falls quiet as Kurogane spits snow and something like the light of battle flares in red eyes. “That’s it,” says Kurogane, voice a lethal rumble, “you are  _dead_ , mage.”  
  
Syaoran doesn’t take much convincing to join the ensuing war ( _The Shop-owner and his Servants versus the Archer and the Kitsune versus the Mokonas versus the Traveller versus the Mage versus the Ninja_ ) and when the battle finally ends, two snow-drenched hours later, no one is exactly sure who is the victor, only that they’re all  _freezing_  -with the notable exception of Fai, clutching Kurogane’s cloak tightly about his shoulders and beaming smugly at the rest of them and a ( _sulking_ ) sodden ninja in particular- and Watanuki’s suggestion of a change of clothes and hot sake is met with some enthusiasm.  
  
“Sa~ke!” sing the Mokonas, bouncing in tandem across the verandah, carolling out “Hot,  _sweet_  sake~! Drink it up, drink it UP~!”  to all and sundry; the fox kit giggles at their antics even as he is lifted up onto the ledge by Doumeki, snow melting in the archer’s dark hair and dripping in his eyes. Watanuki scowls theatrically, but there is something affectionate in the curve of his mouth even as he snaps a lecture about  _ruined kimono, you oaf, RUINED, and you’re going to catch a cold if you mess about in snow drifts and don’t think I’ve the time to take care of you when you get sick_ , taking the hands of Moro and Maru and leading them through the shoji and through to the dining room. Doumeki follows along behind, and though his face is as impassive as ever, Syaoran could’ve sworn his mouth twitched into something like a smirk as he passed by.  
  
Climbing up onto the verandah, he shakes the snow from his clothes, dodging the still-bouncing Mokona that spring across the wooden planking in great leaps and bounds; Kurogane snarls a curse as the white one ( _their  Mokona, Syaoran thinks, and knows it is less about ownership and more about family_) ricochets gleefully off his head with a joyful ‘ _puu~!_ ’.  
  
“Wet doggies should stay out~side~!” croons Mokona as she whizzes past, “and they  _don’t_  get sake!”  
  
“Stay away from my sake,” growls Kurogane, hands twitching with rage, “and if I catch you drinking from my bottle again, I’m gonna wring it out of you drop by drop! Like a sponge, pork bun,  _a sponge!”_  but there is less heat in his voice than one would expect, and he does little more than swat aimlessly at her as she bounces away and towards the open door, giggling all the while.  
  
Syaoran is still laughing about it when Fai’s hand settles gently on his shoulder. He starts a little; he hadn’t heard the blonde come up behind him, but there is no mischief in blue eyes, and quick-fingered hands are empty. It’s no guarantee against a surprise snowball to the face, he knows, but it is a relief all the same.  
  
“You go on without us, Syaoran-kun,” says the mage softly, and as he speaks Syaoran watches Kurogane settle himself down on the verandah to lean against a wooden pillar; Fai’s gaze follows the movement, slips from his face and across to the ninja himself as Fai half-turns to look over his own shoulder. “Kuro-sama and I have things to talk about.”  
  
And Syaoran blinks ( _his heart thumps a little in his chest_ ) because this feels less like a request for privacy than something approaching a goodbye- but then Fai smiles, and it is small and a touch rueful, something surprisingly ( _honest_ ) reassuring in that expression, and the mage squeezes his shoulder briefly. Maybe his thoughts show clearly on his face ( _because their journey will end, eventually, even if his does not and that he accepts that one day the two of them will leave together _- _as well they should, they’ve_   _earned_   _their happiness_ - _does little to lessen its impact all the same_ ) because blue eyes are very knowing as they meet his own. “Go on,” says Fai with a wink, and abruptly the tightness in his throat eases. “We’ll be along soon enough.”  
  
From the open doorway Syaoran can hear Maru and Moro laughing and Watanuki scolding Doumeki for eating all the snacks he’d just put out on the table; Mokona’s high, sweet voice carries clear across the din as she bursts into song with her counterpart, and the sudden rush of affection he feels for this place and these people makes him wish that Sakura was here all the more ( _and maybe if he’s lucky he’ll be home next, and she’ll be waiting for him with open arms like she always is_ ) so he just smiles right on back.  
  
“Okay,” says Syaoran, and he can’t and won’t stop the grin that crests over his face, “but I can’t promise I’ll save you anything to drink.”  
  
“You will if you know what’s good for you, kid,” says Kurogane, folding his arms behind his head, “and keep that drunken pork bun from swallowing anything weird, wouldya? I don’t want to end up landing in the ocean again ‘cause that thing’s got the interdimensional hiccups or something.”  
  
“Kuro-chi,” chides Fai, moving across wooden planking to nudge the other with his foot, earning an irritated grunt, “magic doesn’t work like that-”  
  
“Whatever,” and Kurogane waves a dismissive hand, “all I’m saying is, whenever we get dropped in a pile somewhere,  _I’m_  always the one that ends up on the bottom. That thing’s doing it on purpose, I  _know_  it is.”  
  
“You’re paranoid,” laughs Fai, and leaps on his back, rocking the ninja sideways and nearly toppling them both off the verandah’s edge. “But then, I don’t think you could be a ninja if you weren’t~!”  
  
 _“Get off me! Bastard!”_  
  
Syaoran leaves them like that, still arguing as he walks away with a grin and a shake of his head ( _sometimes it’s hard to believe that they’re apparently the mature ones_ ) and when he slides the doors closed behind him, neither of them notices- even if there’s a farewell in their future ( _and there will be, one day, that he knows)_  it’s still a long way off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the main story; this is our happy ending.
> 
> This fic will always have a special place in my heart for me; it was my first multi-chaptered large work for this pairing, and I tried so many new things with it that I will always be proud of it.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far.
> 
> The next chapter is a time-stamp that takes place _before_ the story starts, a prologue of sorts.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a time-stamp, written as a meme request for a scene that takes part _before_ the main story begins; consider it a prologue of sorts.

“Mokona’s tummy hurts.” The white thing is quiet tonight, huddled in a small ball in the biggest chair by the fireplace, ears drooped and lifeless. “…Mokona has a bad feeling, Kuro-pu.” Personally, Kurogane thinks it’s more likely the pork bun ate something bad  _(who knows what happens inside a stomach that swallows down time and space?)_  and says so, making it jump- but the small alcove that connects their rooms is empty tonight, no one else about, so it costs him nothing to drop his hand to rest briefly atop the white thing’s fuzzy head.

Mokona’s ears twitch weakly against his palm as it nuzzles up against him, making the earring jingle, but it’s not smiling still, and firelight flickers across the ruby buried in its forehead. “Mokona has a bad feeling,” it repeats softly, and bloody shadows ripple across the white thing’s face as it looks up at him. He doesn’t know what else to say to that  _(he’s not exactly the comforting type)_  but scruffs his fingers briefly into soft fur and leaves it to curl up on the cushions.

If something is coming, then standing around by the fireside isn’t going to do anything to stop it, and he’s tired besides- better to get a good night’s sleep and face it in the morning.

The door to his room creaks when he opens it, and the key scrapes in the lock as he closes it behind him, but neither sound is enough to wake Fai, lanky frame bunched up and bundled across the seat of an armchair, one long leg dangling over the side and face disgruntled where the bright glow from the small fireplace washes over his features. A bundle of wood is propped up against the bricked wall, and a scattering of woodchips crunches underfoot as Kurogane makes his way across the threadbare rug; Fai stirs, trying to curl tighter into the small space of the chair, and heat soaks into Kurogane's heavy cloak as he draws closer.

The mage doesn’t jump when he lays a hand on his shoulder, just turns, slowly, pressing his face against the back of Kurogane’s hand; firelight spills honey highlights in his hair and gilds his eyelashes as Fai blinks, drifting slowly awake. “It was cold,” he mumbles, lips barely brushing against skin, and his voice is thick with sleep. “I wanted to get the room warm at least… didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

His knees crack as Kurogane helps him out of the chair, yawning and stretching out his spine with a series of popping noises- but he doesn’t let go of Kurogane’s hand, threading their fingers together. Some time ago  _(years? Months? How long has it been since this man wove himself into his life?)_  he would have probably protested, but it is late and they are tired, and something soft warms icy blue as Fai sways close, fiddling with the clasp of Kurogane’s cloak.

“I feel so old sometimes,” says Fai, splaying a long-fingered hand over Kurogane’s chest and pulling at the laces of his shirt. His cloak, heavy and woollen, comes loose and slides to the floor in a slump of rustling fabric. “Downstairs, in the bar… so many young men talking about the coming revolution. There were riots in the streets today, Kuro-sama; Syaoran says there was a rally near the palace, and that the cavalry brigades are gathering.” Cool fingers work their way through the gaps in linen, and Kurogane shivers in spite of the fireplace’s heat.

Fai sighs, gaze drifting across Kurogane's face. “If it happens, it’ll happen soon, Kuro-tan. I know the signs. I know what young men are like, and when I was younger, I might have joined them. But I am older now, and I am selfish, and I want our  _family_  to be safe-”  
  
 _(and maybe the use of the word is a little odd, but it’s also right, and he understands completely why the mage chose it)_  
  
“-so promise me that if tomorrow the fighting comes to us, we’ll get out of the city. I don’t want to see your blood on the cobblestones, no matter how just the cause.” Fai’s hand rests against his heart, the heavy slow beat of it pressing against a cool palm, and Kurogane nods. Something like foreboding prickles him, and though he is no dreamseer like his princess, to see the tides of fate as they push and pull the lives of men, he is not so young as to not heed his instincts.  
  
They will leave in the morning, then, before blood washes through the streets. Maybe Syaoran will need to be convinced that this world’s problems are not their own, and maybe there will be fighting on the way out- but he has his blade, and he has his mage  _(and there is no fear when Fai is by his side in battle)_  and between the two of them they will protect the _(children)_  brat and the pork bun, and see them safely away from the riots.  
  
Of this he is sure.  
  
 _(he is wrong, but he doesn't know that yet)_  
  
But then Fai’s hand slides lower, parting cloth before his drifting fingers, and a different heat from that of the fire washes through him. “You were tired ten minutes ago,” says Kurogane, but tugs the mage closer all the same; Fai makes no protest, just smiles  _(honest and wicked)_  and embers glow hot in the shadows of blue.  
  
“I was  _waiting_ , Kuro-sama. There’s a difference.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite their best intentions, the travellers are caught in the chaos of the rebellion in the early hours of the morning. There is a wide-spread fighting, mobs and barricades and seething pockets of conflict in winding, cobbled streets; they are separated by no fault of their own, and it is then that the royal cavalry come calling.
> 
> Historically speaking, letting loose cavalry against mobs in a city landscape does not end well for either the riders or those on foot; the death toll is high. Kurogane is very, very badly hurt -on the verge of dying- and following Fai's desperate raging efforts to get him back, Mokona's panicked flight drops them all in the yard of the Dimension Witch. And that is how this story starts.


End file.
